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The Geopolitics of : Mobility, territory, and protest in and

by

Ian Rowen

BA, University of , Santa Cruz, 2001

MA, University of , Boulder, 2012

A thesis submitted to the

Faculty of the Graduate School of the

University of Colorado in partial fulfillment

of the requirement for the degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Department of

2016

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This thesis entitled: The Geopolitics of Tourism: , territory, and protest in Taiwan and China written by Ian Rowen has been approved for the Department of Geography

______

Tim Oakes

______

Emily Yeh

______

John O’Loughlin

Date

The final copy of this thesis has been examined by the signatories, and we find that both the content and the form meet acceptable presentation standards of scholarly work in the above mentioned discipline. IRB protocol # : 13-0695

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Rowen, Ian (PhD, Geography) The Geopolitics of Tourism: Mobility, territory, and protest in Taiwan and China Thesis directed by Tim Oakes

ABSTRACT

This dissertation analyzes outbound tourism from the People’s Republic of China to

Taiwan to unpack the geopolitics of the state and the everyday, to theorize the mutual constitution of the tourist and the -state, and to explore the role of tourism in new forms of protest and resistance, including the 2014 Taiwan Sunflower and Kong Umbrella

Movements. It presents a theoretical argument that tourism should be viewed as a technology of state territorialization; that is, as a mode of social and spatial ordering that produces tourists and state territory as effects of power. Based on of tourism practices and spaces of resistance conducted between 2012 and 2015 and supported by ethnographic content analysis, this dissertation explores the engagement of PRC tourists with Taiwanese hosts, political representations of Taiwan and China, the territorializing effects of tourism, the production of multiple sensations of stateness, and the ways that tourism is aggravating contradictions between the different territorialization programs of China and Taiwan. It demonstrates that tourism mobilities are entangled with shifting forms of sovereignty, territoriality, and bordering. This dissertation argues that embodied, everyday practices such as tourism cannot be divorced from state-scale geopolitics and that future research should pay closer attention to its unpredictable political instrumentalities and chaotic effects. In dialogue with both mobilities research and borders studies, it sheds light not only on the vivid particularities of the but on the cultural politics and geopolitics of tourism in general.

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Acknowledgements

Copious gratitude to my adviser Tim Oakes, and committee members Emily Yeh, John

O’Loughlin, Shu-ling Berggreen, and Kira Hall for their insight and insistence. Many thanks to my xuejiemei, Yang Yang, Amelia Schubert, and Sarah Tynen, for support throughout the production and review of the dissertation. Major thanks are also due to Even Chen for generous and creative linguistic help.

At , Mau-kuei , Wu Jieh-min and Stephane Corcuff provided continuous encouragement and wise counsel. Great thanks to Gunter Schubert, Ek-hong

Lvajakaw Sia, and Andre Beckershoff at the European Research Center on Contemporary

Taiwan (ERCCT) for an excellent writing environment and exciting conversation in beautiful

Tubingen, . Much is owed to Taiwan and China scholars Yi-ling Chen, Shu-mei Huang,

Jeff Wasserstrom, Dafydd Fell, Frank Muyard, Mark Harrison, An-ru Lee, Jon Sullivan, Tom

Gold, and Scott Writer, for insight, friendship, coffee, opened doors, and more. Respect is due to

Taiwan bloggers and writers in the trenches, including Chieh-ting Yeh, James Smyth, Michael

Turton, Brian Hioe for fighting the good fight and sharing seemingly endless new data sources.

Critical funding support was provided by the National Science Foundation, the Fulbright

Program, the Taiwan Foundation for Democracy, ERCCT, the US Department of Education

FLAS Fellowship, the US Department of State Critical Language Scholarship, the Gilbert F.

White Fellowship and other grants from the University of Colorado Department of Geography and Graduate School.

Finally, thanks and blessings to family, and in particular to Wanyu and Fantuan for the home stretch.

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Contents

Contents ...... v

List of Figures ...... viii

List of Tables ...... ix

1 Introduction ...... 1

1.1 Tourism and territoriality ...... 9

1.2 Taiwan, tourism, territory and protest...... 16

1.3 Methods ...... 22

1.4 Structure of dissertation...... 27

2 Tourism as a technology of state territorialization ...... 30

2.1 Governmentality and the state as an “imagined collective actor” ...... 37

2.2 State territory, sovereignty, citizenship and the modern inter-state system ...... 39

2.3 Borders as processes, everywhere ...... 44

2.4 Performativity and the state ...... 46

2.5 Border performances and the production of (inter)national subjects ...... 52

2.6 Tourist performance and border performativity ...... 57

3 A political history of cross-Strait and tourism ...... 62

3.1 Taiwan: From frontier to colony to contested nation-state ...... 64

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3.2 The development of cross-Strait tourism ...... 72

3.3 Tourism as diplomatic weapon and technology of PRC state power ...... 82

3.4 as a comparative example of the PRCs deployment of tourism and zoning

technologies ...... 87

3.5 Tying together the threads ...... 94

4 The heterotopia of Taiwan’s tourist sites and territorial languages ...... 99

4.1 Taiwan’s airports as heterotopia within a heterotopia ...... 104

4.2 as both a Chinese scenic spot and national treasure of Taiwan ...... 108

4.3 101: A convergence of contradictory states ...... 113

4.4 The , the “umbilical cord” of in Taiwan 120

4.5 Shilin Night Market ...... 122

4.6 Dulan, a cosmopolitan aboriginal counterpoint to group tourism ...... 123

4.7 Producing Taiwan as a touristed part of China ...... 126

4.8 The language of touristic territorialization ...... 129

4.9 The life and virtual worlds of a non-Chinese Taiwan ...... 133

4.10 Conclusion ...... 135

5 and analysis of a Chinese group tour of Taiwan, August 2014...... 137

5.1 Itinerary as both product and performative script of Taiwan as a Chinese tourist space

...... 141

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5.2 The management structure of the tour ...... 143

5.3 Chronological account of the tour ...... 144

5.4 Analysis ...... 171

5.5 Conclusion ...... 179

6 From xiaoqingxin to Spring Scream: The varieties and ambiguities of independent tourist

experience ...... 181

6.1 Taiwan as “small, fresh, and new”—and Japanese? ...... 187

6.2 “Warm,” “friendly,” “civilized”—and feminine? ...... 193

6.3 “Free,” “democratic,” and falling behind? ...... 195

6.4 Consuming and performing Taiwan’s youth music culture ...... 197

6.5 Family visitors ...... 204

6.6 Conclusion ...... 205

7 Chinese tourism as a factor in the 2014 Taiwan Sunflower and Hong Kong Umbrella

Movements ...... 209

7.1 An account of the Taiwan Sunflower Movement ...... 213

7.2 Chinese tourism as a driver of the Taiwan Sunflower Movement ...... 233

7.3 An account of the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement ...... 237

7.4 Chinese tourism as a driver of the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement ...... 242

7.5 Comparative Analysis: “Today’s Hong Kong is Today’s Taiwan”? ...... 246

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7.6 Conclusion ...... 249

8 Tourism as a territorial strategy in and beyond Taiwan: The case of the Sea ... 252

8.1 Tourism as a territorial “problem”: A never-ending story? ...... 254

8.2 Tourism as “creative territorialization” in the ...... 257

8.3 Tourism and territory beyond Taiwan and China ...... 267

References ...... 271

List of Figures

Figure 1: , head of China's , and entourage ducking for cover

from white paint and ghost money poured by protestors. Source: Wall Street Journal, June 29,

2014...... 2

Figure 2: airport terminal gate sign with "International-Hong Kong--

Taiwan Departures." 1 August 2014. Source: Author...... 105

Figure 3: Taipei , International departures board. Source: ...... 106

Figure 4: Taipei Songshan Airport, International departures sign. Source: Author, 10 July 2012.

...... 107

Figure 5. Sun Moon Lake, Taiwan, on page 43 of the PRC . Sina Weibo...... 110

Figure 6: Superimposed sovereignties of the PRC, ROC, and an independent Taiwan on parade

at . Source: Author, 1 June 2014...... 116

Figure 7: TIRA protester in between CPAROC proters at entrance to Taipei 101. Source: Author,

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24 May 2014...... 119

Figure 8: Visiting a KMT-owned jade "museum" store. Source: Author, 7 August 2014...... 166

Figure 9: Child in the Admiralty encampment. Source: Author, 26 October 2014...... 240

List of Tables

Table 1: Visitor arrivals by purpose from (Source: Taiwan

Website) ...... 78

1

Chapter 1

Introduction

In June 2014, the chief of the Taiwan Affairs Office of the China State Council, Zhang

Zhijun, arrived for an “inspection tour” of Taiwan, a de facto independent, self-ruled island that his office claims as a part of China. As the first ministerial-level visitor from the People’s

Republic of China (PRC), Zhang could be considered the highest profile tourist (luke, 陸客) in Taiwan’s modern history. His visit was meant as both an “inspection tour” of the contested state’s territory, as well as an occasion to hold meetings to direct the future development of Taiwan and China’s relations. His trip was highly controversial—many of

Zhang’s scheduled activities were canceled after Taiwanese pro-independence protesters poured white paint and “ghost money” on his entourage.

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Figure 1: Zhang Zhijun, head of China's Taiwan Affairs Office, and entourage ducking for cover from white paint and ghost money poured by protestors. Source: Wall Street Journal, June 29, 2014.

He had chosen a delicate time to tour Taiwan’s spaces of exceptional sovereignty.

Following major springtime demonstrations, including an unprecedented occupation of the

Legislative (parliament) to protest a services trade deal with the PRC with major tourism provisions, and with anti-unification sentiment polling at historical highs, Zhang’s ostensible mission to court the people of Taiwan wasn’t helped by statements from his own office. A few days prior to his arrival, the Taiwan Affairs Office spokesperson announced that Taiwan’s future should be decided by people in China (Wytze 2014). Despite careful bilateral attempts at stage management for the tour, few in Taiwan were surprised that Zhang’s visit provoked island-wide demonstrations.

Zhang’s visit, as an outcome of previous agreements over mobility regulations, an occasion for further negotiations, and as a stage for high-level diplomatic theater, highlighted fundamental contradictions between the sovereign territorial programs and the public sentiments

3 of Taiwan and the PRC. With the annexation of Taiwan still a key PRC policy priority, Zhang sits atop a state agency that has threatened to use military force to prevent Taiwan’s de jure independence. Yet even as the PRC points over a thousand missiles across the Strait, since 2008, it has also sent millions of tourists in the same direction with the encouragement of Taiwan’s state officials and travel industry leaders. Unofficially, travel conducted under the name of tourism has also been used to facilitate other forms of investment, political contact, and business and personal network formation. Such mobilities continue proliferating despite, or sometimes precisely because of the PRC and Taiwan’s conflicting sovereign and territorial claims.

Inasmuch as these tours are part and parcel of the PRC’s annexation program, they also effectively reproduce Taiwan as a space of exceptional sovereignty, while also aggravating contradictions between China and Taiwan’s territorial programs.

The development of tourism from the PRC to Taiwan has historically been constrained by Taiwan’s exceptional sovereign territorial status. Meanwhile, tourism has been presented as part of basket of economic “gifts” to reterritorialize Taiwan as a part of China. At the same time that the economic benefits of tourism are used as a political tool in the PRC’s diplomatic arsenal, incompatible sovereign and territorial claims are producing multiple, overlapping sensations and spaces of stateness for tourists, and affecting Taiwan’s domestic politics and self-definition.

While the particular transformations of Taiwan and China’s mobility regimes require detailed explanation, I provide them not to over-emphasize the exceptionality of Taiwan’s sovereignty and thereby render it immune to comparative analysis, but to suggest that attention to its unusual features can illuminate the role of the everyday, banal, and mundane—such as the use of national flags, maps, names, and travel permits— in the production of tourism mobilities and political spaces elsewhere. For, as Navaro-Yashin (2012) argues in her ethnographies of the

4 de facto Turkish state in northern , looking at everyday practices of sovereignty and administration in contested states sheds light on the peculiarity of normative sovereignties more generally.

…

Tourism is no mere leisure activity, as the case of Taiwan and China makes clear. In the complicated sovereign and territorial topology of this region, tourism is political instrument, provocation to protest, and stage of high-stakes struggle over ethnic identity, national borders, and state territory. This dissertation examines outbound tourism from mainland China to Taiwan, territories nominally claimed by both the PRC and the Republic of China (ROC) on Taiwan, to unpack such geopolitics of the state and the everyday, to theorize the mutual constitution of the national tourist and the nation-state, and to explore the role of tourism in new forms of dissent and resistance. Examination of this case sheds light not only on the vivid particularities of the region, but on the cultural politics and geopolitics of tourism in general.

Tourism’s relevance to the social sciences was declared by Dean MacCannell, who posited that “the tourist” was emblematic of modern man’s search for meaning and authenticity

(MacCannell 1976). Urry’s later work on the “tourist gaze,” loosely following Foucault, suggested that the structure of tourism generated a particular way that tourists see landscapes and people, and consume and make the world legible (Urry and Larsen 2011).

These treatments provide useful starting points for the present case, but they stem from studies of Western tourists. These empirical limitations have necessarily limited their geographical scope. Also problematic, they usually treat the tourist as a typical, or even the quintessential, modern liberal subject in search of a sense of authenticity and difference from

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“home”. This treatment is simply insufficient for the case of China, where tourism has been used to articulate a sense of state-directed modernity (Oakes 1998), to project state authority over cultural interpretation (Nyíri 2010), and deployed as an explicit tool of foreign policy (Richter

1983a). Furthermore, as Nyíri has argued and as my work supports, many Chinese tourists are not necessarily interested in pursuing an experience of cultural authenticity or difference—my ethnographies suggest that in many cases, it is actually a sense of identity and familiarity that is desired by tourists and produced by the tourism industry and state agencies that cater to and produce them.

Another shortcoming of much other past work in tourism studies is a consistently underspecified theorization of the state and state territory, which is especially glaring in the light of a territorial and foreign policy dispute such as that of the PRC and Taiwan. Therefore, this project aims not only to provide an intrinsically useful empirical account of cross-Strait tourism, but it also places the (re)production of state territory and national identity as its central theoretical concern, in the hopes of opening new directions for the political geographic study of tourism in general.

The case of China, the world’s fastest growing tourism market, is exemplary for such a study. Tourism is profoundly affecting spatial, social, political and economic order throughout the region, reconfiguring leisure spaces and economies, transportation infrastructure, popular political discourse, and geopolitical imaginaries. Outbound tourism from the PRC has been used as an economic lever for extracting political concessions not only in nearby Taiwan, but as far away as . At the same time that tourism is being used to consolidate state authority in

Tibet and , it has also triggered wide popular protest in semi-autonomous Hong Kong and international criticism over the territorially-contested South China Sea. This wide range of

6 reactions underscores the political stakes and sites of tourism, which touch on territorial extent and definition, bordering technologies, sovereign claims, and the rights and lived experiences of mobile subjects.

China is remarkable for not only its rapidly growing outbound tourism, but also for its rise in global geopolitical prominence and experiments in new forms of sovereignty. Ong (2004) has argued that the PRC uses “variegated sovereignty” as a “technology of governance” designed to exert influence and integrate its territorial claims over Hong Kong, Taiwan, and elsewhere by flexibly allowing for different techniques of rule. By variegated sovereignty, Ong is referring to

“differential powers of autonomy and social orders that are allowed by the Chinese state” in different but connected economic and political zones, designed instrumentally for “incremental but eventual political integration” (2004, 83). This dissertation will highlight how tourism mobilities are a fragile component of this fraught project.

Mobilities and borders are increasingly recognized as inseparable domains (Cresswell

2010; Richardson 2013; Salter 2013). Indeed, “to theorize mobilities and networks is at the same time to theorize borders” (Rumford 2006, 155). Cultural and political geographers have conducted insightful studies on the role of tourism in domestic nation-building and modernization projects (Oakes 1998; Johnson 1999; Light 2001). However, the political implications and instrumentalities of tourism mobilities between and at the edges of national territory demand deeper attention. Tourists, a particular kind of mobile subject, traverse a bordered world, and their movements affect and are affected by the and performance of those borders.

While much recent mobilities literature relates migration to state sovereignty and the performance of borders and state territory (Wonders 2006; Salter 2006, 2008; Parsley 2003;

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Dauvergne 2004), tourism has received insufficient analysis. There have indeed been some examinations of the role of borders in encouraging or restricting tourism (Timothy 2004, 1995;

Sofield 2006), the potential instrumentality of tourism for achieving world peace or for reconciliation or unification between nation-states (Guo et al. 2006; Seongseop, Timothy, and

Han 2007; D’Amore 1988; Jafari 1989), and the use of tourism as an instrument of foreign policy (Richter 1983b; Arlt 2006), but tourism has rarely been treated as a bordering or territorializing process in its own right.

Within the sub-field of and the broader interdisciplinary realm of tourism studies, recent themes of embodiment (Gibson 2009), physicality and performance

(Edensor 2001) and performativity have led researchers in interesting regional and methodological directions (Gibson 2008), but have also tended to shift the discussion farther away from state-scale politics. This dissertation responds by arguing that the geopolitics and the everyday embodied encounters of tourism articulate together and should be researched in tandem

Before diving deeper, it is now useful to provide a definition of tourism adequate for the scope of this dissertation: While academic researchers, industry actors, and governmental agencies may differ in their specific understandings, I will adopt the International Union of

Tourism Organization’s (IUTO) broad definition of a tourist as “any person visiting a country, region or place other than that in which he or she has their usual place of residence” (Williams

1998) . This is similar to but more generalized than Smith’s (1977, 2) definition of a tourist as a

“temporarily leisured person who voluntarily visits a place away from home for the purpose of experiencing a change”. Either of these definitions is adequate for the case of PRC nationals who are traveling to Taiwan.

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Tourism research has not been the exclusive domain of any particular discipline. While geographers have been researching tourism at least since the 1920s, anthropologists, sociologists, political scientists, and even economists have also contributed to the field. Inter-disciplinary collaboration and the needs of industry have led to the establishment of industry training-focused research and educational centers, and schools of leisure and hospitality management have proliferated throughout academia. Meanwhile, theoretical discussions of tourism have developed in multiple directions, leading some researchers to complain about a lack of theoretical coherence (Holden 2005) or communication between disciplines (Coles, Hall, and Duval 2006).

At least until the 1980s, if not later, a number of scholars complained that their peers found tourism research frivolous, an excuse for an academic junket, and not worthy of serious study (Richter 1983b). However, following major contributions that situated tourism in wider discussions of social change (MacCannell 1976; Urry and Larsen 2011; Rojek 2005; Graburn

1983), tourism arguably came into its own as both a worthwhile object for study in its own right, and as a lens with which to analyze other sociocultural phenomena in ways that are unbound to traditional academic divisions. There has even been a call for a “post-disciplinary” approach in which “epistemological space exists within studies of tourism… for even greater flexibility, plurality, synthesis and synergy by abandoning the shackles of disciplinary policing” (Coles,

Hall, and Duval 2006, 312). It is in this spirit that I wish to advance the discussion within and beyond the discipline of geography, and treat tourism as a broadly political practice.

I would like now to offer a brief reflexive note on the disciplinary role of the tourism scholar. I contend not only that tourist practice should be viewed as a component of state territorialization, but that the practices of tourism researchers play a part in the state territorialization of tourists. Much of the tourism studies literature is concerned with typologies

9 of tourists based on their sending country or region (S. Wong and Lau 2001; Defranco 2000;

Guo, Kim, and Timothy 2006 are just a few China-specific examples). Such analyses not only often obscure the complexity and heterogeneity of tourists, but contribute to the reification of the state that I am attempting to move past in this dissertation. I do not mean to suggest that all such aggregations or simplifications are devoid of any utility—-holders, for example, may very well behave quite differently in general while on tour than Chinese—but I simply wish to point out, in line with Oakes (2011), the state-centric epistemology of much applied tourism research and to the subjectivating and disciplinary effects of this epistemology. A study of tourism that does not reify the state or assume the subjectivities of its citizen-subjects should provide more insight into the state territorialization processes of tourism, particularly into the ways in which national identities are performed and (re)inscribed in tourist spaces, and indeed into the ways in which tourism can be said to reproduce the state.

1.1 Tourism and territoriality

Millions of tourists cross borders every year. in hand, these tourists act as the citizen-subjects of the various nation-states of the world. They travel for any number of reasons.

When they cross borders from their own country into another and then return home, they, I suggest, are not only carrying memories and —they, along with border agents and airlines, travel agents and tour operators, are performing, indeed enacting, the borders that they are crossing and the state territories that they are traversing.

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This process is certainly not unique to China and Taiwan, but the controversy of this case should help to trace the political stakes of tourism more broadly. While cross-Strait tourism may seem an extraordinary case, it is precisely its extraordinariness that makes it valuable for a discussion of the territorial politics of tourism in general. So much of the modern interstate system is taken for granted in the literature of tourism that the study of an extraordinary situation may uncover what, through repetition, has come to seem ordinary—a world split into nation- states with mutually exclusive territories, a global mobility regime of visas and passports, and so on—but is in fact a quite peculiar and contingent configuration of space and bodies. This configuration, I suggest, is performed and transformed by the practice of tourism.

This dissertation therefore uses the case of cross-Strait tourism to argue that tourism should be viewed as a technology of state territorialization. I take as my starting point that these subjects and objects—tourists, states and , borders and territory—have no essential existence. They emerge discursively and are recognized and reconfigured through social and spatial practice (Lefebvre 1991). I treat the state not as an autonomous or unitary entity and territory not as a place, but rather as processes of which tourism may play a constitutive part.

Territorial and geographic assumptions about the nation-state permeate the academic and industrial discourses of tourism: thus we have the fundamental divisions of versus , and inbound versus outbound tourism, produced and reproduced in scholarship and state and industry practice. While perhaps useful for state and industry planners, such discourse also reifies states and borders and can even obscure the sociospatial processes that produce and disrupt them. These discourses presuppose a shared understanding of fixed borders and exclusive state territory, a peculiar and historically contingent conception of geography. As

Wainwright and Robertson write:

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…[territoriality] is something materialized through socio-spatial practices that separate ‘us’ from ‘others’. The concept of exclusive state territory, where territory is the coordinate space occupied by a nation-state, is fundamental to the way modernity has been ‘worlded’ – in pieces, with each piece a part of one or another nation-state’s territory (2003, 201).

This effect is manifested through borders, which “comprise the basic element in the construction of territories and the practice of territoriality” (Paasi 2003, 112). But borders are not simply lines on the map, or state institutions or practices that are manifested or enacted in specific sites, but also “processes that exist in socio-cultural and discourses” (Paasi 1999).

Tourism should be construed as one such “bordering” process, and therefore an instrument or technology of state territorialization. Cross-Strait tourism, with its flows of people, goods, and capital through contested and blurred borders, provides a compelling case for this argument.

In order to rigorously investigate tourism’s heretofore unexplored role in state territorialization, I endeavor to provide a sufficiently robust theoretical treatment of the state, one that draws particularly from Foucault and his followers. This will include a brief review of

Foucault’s work on governmentality, as well as recent developments in theoretical treatments of the state, sovereignty, territoriality, and borders, and tourism’s under-examined relationship with these concepts and practices. Tying together these threads, ideas of performativity and narrativity will be used to explore how the effect of the state and its territories and borders are produced and circulated, particularly within and through touristic circuits.

In light of the above, and to be further clarified below, this project (1) treats the territory and borders of nation-states not as static places, but rather as sets of social and spatial processes that include tourism, (2) argues that tourism should be treated as a technology of power, and in this particular context, as a technology of state territorialization, and (3) claims that state

12 territory, state citizens, and boundaries are constituted not only through material practices at nominal border sites, but also through the production of boundary narratives and performances.

Within the social science disciplines, tourism has been researched from fields including geography (Oakes 1998; Cartier and Lew 2005), (Graburn 1983; Smith 1977), sociology (MacCannell 1976), and more recently political science (e.g. Richter 1983; Matthews and Richter 1991). Tourism’s place-making power has received extensive attention, especially in the case of heritage sites (Nuryanti 1996; Cartier and Lew 2005; Graham, Ashworth, and

Tunbridge 2000; Johnson 1999; Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1998).

The general relationship between tourism and borders has been explored most extensively by the geographer Dallen J. Timothy (2004). Building on the work of Matznetter

(1979), Timothy offers the following three categories for understanding the relation between tourism and borders: The border as a barrier, the border as destination, and the border as a modifier of the tourism landscape. Beyond this typology, he does not offer any conceptualization of tourism’s role in the production of borders.

Most past work on PRC-Taiwan tourism assumes a normative trajectory of reconciliation, which is symptomatic of tourism studies’ general assumptions about peace and borders. Timothy co-authored a journal article which treats Taiwan and mainland China as partitioned states and offers suggestions for promoting cross-Strait tourism flows to promote “reconciliation” and unification (Guo et al. 2006). Flying in the face of reality, the article also asserts that Hong

Kong’s “smooth reversion” to the PRC demonstrates that “‘one country and two systems’ could solve the problems of the unification of China, which is the most referenced model for the settlement of Taiwan’s problems” (1002). The authors provide no references for this last claim, ignore a long history of protest in Hong Kong that belies this purported “smooth” reversion, and

13 conclude preposterously, with no supporting evidence, that “More and more people believe that

‘one country and two systems’ is practical for both sides. Such a position is shared in one of the few other English-language pieces that has discussed the politics of cross-Strait tourism (Yu

1997). More recent work still treats the cross-Strait case as “rapprochement tourism” (Zhang

2013), which I will demonstrate is an increasingly untenable position. As for scholarship, most accounts from both sides of the Strait assume a normative trajectory of reconciliation and focus more on economic impacts or destination marketing (Ho, Chuang, and

Huang 2012; Liu 2009; Wang 2011; Yi 2008). What is missing here is an appreciation that tourism does not necessarily promote “reconciliation,” but has instrumentalities that serve particular, even competing interests or programs of government (Lanfant 1995).

Policy prescriptions that promote international tourism as a palliative for conflict owe to past work on tourism’s potential instrumentality for peace-making and reconciliation (D’Amore

1988; Jafari 1989). While it would be nice if tourism indeed functioned as a peacemaker, there is little evidence to warrant this belief. Litvin has observed that “the health of tourism is always the result of peace, never the cause of peace” (Litvin 1998, 64). Litvin also points out that tourism has often been used contra peace-making efforts, as in the case of threats against or even kidnapping of tourists.

A corrective case study to such peacemaking fantasy is Park’s ethnography on tourism from to (2005). Park instructively pays attention to the mundane details of border stamps and identity cards, with their coded phrases and differently named state entities, suggesting that North Korean authorities use these instruments to articulate state sovereignty. While tourism can produce feelings of internationalization and de-territorialization, it may also produce “retrenchment of identities in a territory” (116). The practical outcome is

14 that despite hopes for peace, tourism is also “an arena of contestation and cooperation where different states compete, negotiate, manipulate, and maneuver cultural meanings and representations to find their places in the complex and changing international political order”

(116).

In the case of the Koreas, as in Taiwan and China, the place of these states in the international order remains unsettled. But unlike the Korean case, which both states characterize as intra-national tourism (with each side pointing to the other as a false state), or which Park suggests is “inter-state tourism where two states, however hostile, belong to one nation” (125), authorities in Taiwan stopped claiming sovereignty over the PRC long before permitting inbound tourism. Moreover, a clear and increasingly large majority of the people in Taiwan do not identify, even ethnically, as “Chinese” in public opinion polls (National Chengchi University

Election Study Center 2015).

Given this complexity, rather than assume a normative trajectory of reconciliation or greater mutual understanding, scholars should attend to the ways in which state actors use tourism for possibly contradictory ends. The key point is that tourism is a politically messy enterprise with uneven and unclear outcomes. This dissertation presents a conceptual framework that provides analytic precision while allowing for this indeterminacy.

Tourism is much more than an aggregate of human flows through a world traced by package tours and guidebooks. Rather, as sociologist Adrian Franklin has argued, tourist bodies, sites, the state apparatus that manages them, and regulatory devices such as visas or passports constitute a “hybrid assemblage” with a wide range of effects (Franklin 2004; Salter 2013). In this ontology, tourism can be treated as an “active ordering of modernity” which, I argue in

Chapter Two, produces nationalized subjects and spaces through ideological regimes, site

15 management and design, and mobility regulation. These effects extend beyond bodies and spaces nominally recognized as touristic.

The tourist as a stage on which national or racial values are not only inscribed, but performed domestically and abroad. State actors project moral values onto the bodies and representations of mobile subjects (Nyíri 2010; Sun 2002). For example, in China, even if tourism is usually portrayed as a recreational activity, tourists’ behavior has affected the perception of the nation more widely. Chio has observed that “[negative] stories of the Chinese tourist abroad have put a damper on [the] this upbeat association between travel, individual character, and national character” (2010, 14). In response, China’s leadership has launched multiple campaigns to promote “civilized tourism,” portraying its tourists as ambassadors both at home and abroad, enrolling tourists into this national project.

Such moral values and national education campaigns are inscribed not only on bodies, but on sites designated and bounded specifically for tourist experience. The cultural authority exerted via the construction and management of such sites is an important component of national self-definition. Such tactics are also well-documented in the case of China, where the state

“sponsors a discursive regime in which scenic spots and their state-endorsed hierarchy are tools of patriotic education and modernization, and in which the state has the ultimate authority to determine the meaning of the landscape” (Nyíri 2006, 75). The organizational conditions that enable this regime include deep institutional and personal overlaps between state regulatory agencies, tour operators, and site developers and management.

Normative conceptions of national territory are also inscribed in mobility regulation devices such as passports and visas. In the case of trans-national or border-crossing tourism, use of these devices enrolls not only tourists, but other actors in a “global mobility regime” (Salter

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2006) of embassies, consulates, customs and immigration officials, borders and so on. These devices rely on consistent citation of the extent and division of sovereign territory. Their instrumentality can also make them subject to contestation.

China’s so-called “Passport War” of 2012 is illustrative. In May 2012, the PRC released a new passport that includes images not only of Taiwan, but also includes maps that cover disputed territories including parts of Kashmir (administered by ), the Spratly Islands (claimed by several countries, including the and the ), and the Senkaku/Diaoyu Islands

(claimed by ) (Tharoor 2012). The passport quickly drew objections from India, Vietnam and the Philippines, whose foreign ministries directed their immigration officers to not stamp the new passports for fear of legitimizing the PRC’s territorial claims. Their solution was the creation of another device: entry stamps on specially-issued, separate forms. Indian authorities even began issuing visas to PRC nationals that includes a map of India claiming the disputed territories.

Caught in the act of border-crossing, tourist bodies collide with contradictory ethno- national and territorial claims. Between liminal spaces of contested sovereignty and identity, as in Taiwan or Hong Kong, such encounters are punctuated with “material moments” that reveal the complexity and fluidity of national identity (Zhang 2013). However, tourism’s wide range of political instrumentalities can also produce “retrenchment of identity in a territory” (Park 2005,

110) and fuel territorial conflict (Rowen 2014).

1.2 Taiwan, tourism, territory and protest

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Taiwan, a de facto state of 23 million people on a set of islands off the southeast coast of mainland China, is a rich site for a study intended to interrogate the interplay of borders, identity, mobility, and political imaginaries. With a vibrant civil society and growing national consciousness forged through and against an authoritarian party-state apparatus, a history of multiple and overlapping colonialisms, and an anomalous geopolitical situation as a US protectorate and supposedly breakaway Chinese territory, it presents a dynamic and complex polity. Emma Teng (2004) has written eloquently on the “impossibility” of Taiwan’s postcoloniality, while it is still wedged between two regimes and constitutions that claim lineal descent from a culturally and politically Chinese point of origin. Yet, new realities are upending past impossibilities. The more that certain forces, be they the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT), the (CCP), private capital, or otherwise, push Taiwan closer to China, whether through tourism or trade deals, the more spectacularly a distinctly Taiwanese subjectivity coheres and a will to autonomy pushes back.

Taiwan’s territory and identity remains fraught, fragile, and contested. While only officially recognized by 22 other states, Taiwan functions as a de facto independent democratic state with its own military and directly-elected president. Taiwan’s state administration includes its own Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Department of Immigration, as well as a Mainland Affairs

Council, an agency under the executive branch tasked with conducting official coordination with its counterpart in the PRC, the Taiwan Affairs Office. While the PRC claims Taiwan as its sovereign territory and officially groups it together with Hong Kong and Macau as outbound destinations with the same nominal sovereign status, Taiwan’s leadership has greater room to conduct negotiations than the Hong Kong and Macau Special Administrative of the

PRC.

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An agreement to receive direct tourist arrivals from China was not made until 2008, after the election of President Ma Ying-jeou of the pro-unification Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT).

Eager to trumpet political breakthroughs and economic gains, the Ma administration acceded to the PRC’s demand that it accept “entry/exit permits” for Chinese tourists, as do Hong Kong and

Macau, instead of requiring passports and visas, which would imply that Taiwan was a formally independent country. By 2014, annual tourist arrivals had risen to nearly 3 million and were often presented as a showcase example of Ma’s “successful” cross-strait policies. Yet, Ma’s

China policies were panned by the electorate, later earning him approval ratings as low as 9 percent, and sparking the March 2014 Sunflower Movement, when thousands of student and civic activists occupied the area inside and around the (parliament) to protest a trade deal that included provisions that would liberalize the tourism industry. The KMT’s landslide defeat in the November 2014 local elections was widely portrayed as a referendum on

Ma’s China’s policies (Harrison 2014).

While it is difficult to draw a direct causal arrow between the parallel growth in inbound tourism from China and popular protest against China policy, their tandem acceleration deserves analysis. Tourism has frequently been presented by the ruling KMT as a boon to the economy.

This has stoked opposition from a variety of actors: independence advocates eager to reduce

Taiwan’s reliance on China, populists who complain that the benefits of cross-Strait trade have been felt only by people with KMT or PRC connections, and activists who claim that the costs are therefore displaced onto the Taiwanese public. A characteristic example follows:

They [Chinese] create their own market — they fly their own airlines, they hire their own buses, eat and live at their own — but they are using our land and our scenery, to make money. Our scenic hotspots such as Sun Moon Lake and Kenting are now filled with Chinese. We are left with their trash. Allowing

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Chinese tourists into the country costs more than we gain. (“Bohmann von Formosa” quoted in Tsai and Chung 2014)

There is little reliable data about Taiwan’s actual economic gains from tourism. Tourism

Bureau figures, both published publicly and reconfirmed to me in my interviews with officials, are an estimate based on self-reported tourist guesses of per-day spending multiplied by total arrivals, instead of analysis of actual revenues. While economic benefits are therefore unclear, unseen and immaterial for the vast majority of Taiwanese, analysis of my interview and media data suggests that it is precisely the representations of tourist embodiment that imbue them with geopolitical salience.

As in nearby Hong Kong, Chinese tourists are frequently depicted as rude, loutish, noisy, smelly, and unhygienic. Reports both on social media and in the popular press include tourists defacing plants on the east coast (Fauna 2012), tourists bathing in their underwear in the popular southern beach town of Kenting (Tsai and Chung 2014), and public urination (Ramzy 2014).

Similar sentiment was expressed by a colleague, “I don’t go to the beach at Kenting any more.

There are too many mainlanders there now. It’s like going to China.”

While there is an element of “othering” at play here, arguably with racist or discriminatory overtones, this reaction is situated in an uncomfortable historical context. For many in Taiwan, tourism from China recapitulates a kind of geopolitical invasion: its occupation by the KMT in the late 1940s, when the same word now used for today’s mainland Chinese tourists, “mainland guest” (luke, 陸客), referred to incoming waves of KMT soldiers. Like tourists, they were also widely perceived by local residents as uncouth, unhygienic, and abusive

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(Kerr 1965). is therefore part of an ongoing, highly politicized saga of mobility, identity, bordering, and territorialization.

A new chapter in this saga began in the spring of 2014 when, to resist a services trade deal with China that included major tourism provisions, students and civil activists occupied the

Legislative Yuan (Parliament) and initiated what quickly became known as the Sunflower

Movement. Exploiting weakness in the ruling regime and skillfully winning popular support, activists temporarily reterritorialized the legislative office as the executive office of an ad hoc opposition, and developed a functional decision-making and administrative apparatus that arguably re-directed Taiwan’s sovereign future (Rowen 2015). Based on ethnographic research conducted from inside the occupation, Chapter Seven will present this movement and tie its concerns into the larger questions of cross-strait tourism and Taiwan’s political identity.

While the Sunflower Movement, “the greatest episode of collective contention in

Taiwan’s history” (Ho 2015), was certainly the most explosive expression of Taiwan’s geopolitical drama in recent years, there were other extraordinary displays of what might be called “nascent nation-state theater” during my field research period. As I will discuss in Chapter

Four, before and after the mass Sunflower mobilization, under the iconic Taipei 101 skyscraper, for a time the world’s tallest, pro-Taiwan independence and pro-China activists demonstrated for an audience of Chinese tourists, themselves mobilized as agents and reviled as antagonists of territorial annexation. In both sites, tourists and touristic discourse circled around iconic pivots of the nation.

If the Sunflower Movement (along with the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement of fall

2014) represent the “most important rethinking of 21st Century democratic politics” in recent years (Harrison 2015), then it is appropriate to think with them towards new theorizations of

21 government and territoriality more generally. In this re-think, I will focus in particular on the discourse and practice of tourism as both metaphor and mode of encounter between Chinese and

Taiwanese subjects. The motivations for this are threefold—The first is empirical: the Sunflower

Movement began as a protest against a trade deal that included major tourism provisions. The second is theoretical: Both touristic encounters and the Sunflower Movement are imbricated with issues of national territory, identity, and sovereignty. The third is personal: The Sunflower

Movement was in part populated by people (myself included) who entered as concerned passers- by, political tourists in a way, but who were ultimately refashioned into a new kind of subject, the Sunflower scholar-activist.

Sheltered by the international shadow dance of contending US and PRC hegemonies,

Taiwan’s liminal polity continues experimenting with new forms of statehood, representative democracy, and protest. On one hand, it is hard to imagine another place where student and civil society activists could occupy a parliament, develop a functional decision-making process, earn the support of a majority of polled citizens, and exit peacefully more or less on their own terms after 24 days. Likewise, the case of protestors and counter-protestors waving and claiming the sovereignty of contradicting national flags at a site as iconic as Taipei 101 is idiosyncratic, to say the least. Yet Taiwan’s very exceptionality makes it a perfect site for this study of new and emergent forms of networked politics. On an island where the contours of the nation and the structure of the state appear up for grabs by both “external” and “domestic” forces (their distinction itself is fundamentally blurry, and even more so in Taiwan), and in which an unresolved history of colonial state violence seethes under a seemingly placid surface, different political mentalities contend in spaces charged with the affective potencies of life and death struggle. In this sense, Taiwan’s fuzzy “nationalness” and social tolerance makes it an ideal

22 laboratory and concentrated container for examination of diverse manifestations of the politics of mobility.

1.3 Methods

This project develops new theory and presents new data to address the latest twists and turns of this saga. Its methods include multi-sited, mobile ethnography (Buscher and Urry 2009;

Marcus 1995) and ethnographic content analysis (Altheide 1987) conducted between 2012 and

2015 in Taiwan, Hong Kong, and the PRC. Data sources included tourist participant-observation, semi-structured interviews with tourists, tourism industry workers, state officials, and private citizens, and document collection. These datasets supported and informed each other—interview questions were refined based on data gleaned from document collection and participant- observation, while interview results provided new directions for directed attention during participant-observation. This approach provide for triangulation of data sources and more careful and complete analysis.

Fieldwork included 14 months of participant-observation of Chinese tourism within

Taiwan, one month of document collection and research preparation within Shanghai, two months of participant-observation within both the Taiwan Sunflower Movement and Hong Kong

Umbrella Movement occupations, 60 semi-structured interviews with Chinese tourists in Taiwan,

36 interviews with political activists or protest-site visitors (including both Taiwan and Hong

Kong), 20 interviews with Taiwanese tourist industry workers and representatives, and 4 interviews with Taiwanese civil servants and politicians. Based on respondent availability,

23 interviews ranged from 10 to 75 minutes. Most interviews were conducted on-site or in offices, while others took place in nearby parks or cafes. Numerous other conversations were had in more casual contexts and recorded in field notes. Concurrent and later research included extensive analysis of regional print, radio, TV, and online popular and social media.

As a fluent Chinese-speaking US national with a non-Chinese appearance, I occasionally became something of a minor myself while conducting participant-observation, which at least served to draw more interview subjects. More seriously, the US history of support for the ROC is a continuing thorn in the side of US-PRC diplomatic relations. Therefore, my positionality required sensitivity and adaptation to the territorial ideologies and linguistic conventions of both tourists and Taiwanese. My was also at play during my research of the Sunflower and Umbrella Movements in Hong Kong. These questions of positionality receive deeper attention in the ethnographic chapters of the dissertation.

As this is a project about border crossing and border production, research was conducted on both sides of the territorial border—in Taiwan in 2012, in Shanghai, China in 2013, and in

Taiwan again between 2014 and early 2015. Research in Shanghai in 2013 included interviews with outgoing and returning PRC tourists, collection of tourist documents (itineraries, travel permits, guide books, and other marketing materials), identification of relevant social media networks and blogs used by PRC tourists, and the establishment of relations with PRC academic and travel industry informants that have helped illuminate the changing shape of the cross-Strait tourism industry.

Pilot research was conducted in Taiwan in 2012 and more intensive research was conducted throughout 2014 and early 2015. Taipei, the capital, contains a variety of iconic

Taiwanese sites including the Presidential Office, the National Palace Museum, and the Taipei

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101 skyscraper, and served as my primary research base. It is visited by virtually all tourists, and with Songshan Airport, is also a major air border crossing. Two weeks of ethnographic research was also conducted in Taiwan’s major iconic landscape: Sun Moon Lake, in Nantou .

This site is included in the PRC’s new passport as a representative image of Taiwan and features in all full tour itineraries of Taiwan.

To examine the differences between group and FIT (free independent travel) tourists, research was also conducted on the east coast area of Taitung. With a burgeoning minsu () industry and scenic coastline, it is an increasingly popular destination for independent tourists. The month-long base for this research was Dulan, traditionally an Amis aboriginal village. Since the mid-2000s, it has been increasingly marketed as a center for Taiwanese aboriginal culture and creative industry, and was therefore an appropriate place to examine the manifold social of Taiwanese uniqueness and alterity vis a vis China. This and similar issues are discussed in more detail in Chapter Six.

In order to ascertain how Taiwan is presented to PRC tourists, it was necessary to tour

Taiwan with and in a fashion as similar as possible to that of PRC tourists. This meant not only visiting sites popular with PRC tourists, but joining groups as a fellow tourist, engaging in conversation about sites and Taiwan with fellow tourists, listening to site explanations, reading itinerary descriptions, and engaging with local vendors and service staff at sites, , and hotels. This included numerous repeat visits to sites in Taipei and elsewhere in Taiwan and the joining of two successive day tours of Taipei with a group of six

Shanghainese tourists in 2012 during pilot research. Ultimately in August of 2014, I joined a full eight-day group tour from Shanghai to Taiwan, which is discussed in detail in Chapter Five.

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To provide more depth and background to conversations with countless tourists, semi- structured and transcribed interviews were conducted with tourists on tour, tourists who were preparing to leave for Taiwan, and tourists who had already returned from Taiwan to the PRC.

The sample generally aimed for diversity in age, gender, income, and professional background, but was not meant to be exhaustive or strictly representative. Subject recruitment took place during tourist participant-observation and through personal contact networks, and used snowballing methods with multiple origin points. Given the multi-sited, mobile aspect of my methods, these numerous snowball origin points spanned the whole of Taiwan over the course of several years of research, providing for a broad sample of interview subjects who did not share the same social networks or backgrounds. When possible, follow-up phone or text interviews were also conducted with tourists following their return to the PRC.

To compare the statements of PRC tourists with those of Taiwanese tourist industry workers, interviews were also conducted with Taiwanese tour guides, vendors, tourist destination staff, employees, and bus drivers. Subject recruitment likewise proceeded during tourist participant-observation and through personal contact networks, and used snowballing methods with multiple origin points. My years of residence in Taiwan as a student and professional between 2001 and 2005, prior to the commencement of this research project, broadened my sample beyond people recruited in the field and allowed for a more set of responses.

Interviews with Taiwanese state officials and tourism industry leaders were conducted to gain understanding of both operational and political factors that affect state management of PRC tourists and of the tourism industry. Agencies included the national-level Taiwan Tourism

Bureau (under the Ministry of Transportation and Communications) as well as the Mainland

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Affairs Council (under the ). I also conducted interviews in Shanghai in 2013 with officials at Taiwan’s quasi-official tourism-focused consulate, the Tourism

Association. On the industry side, I conducted several interviews with past and present travel industry trade association leaders. These interviews revealed considerable overlap and blurring between state and industry rhetoric, practice, and operations, as I discuss in Chapter Three.

While interviews with PRC government officials would have been interesting for comparative analysis, the political sensitivity of cross-Strait relations rendered such a component unfeasible for this project. Even though cross-Strait tourism is often cast by the PRC as a reconciliation project, efforts to directly contact state officials were discouraged by my academic host at Fudan University in Shanghai in 2013 as well as by Shanghai travel agents in state-owned enterprises, who did at least provide useful data about their training and preparation by PRC state agencies for managing tourism to Taiwan. In any event, both my institutional host and the travel agents suggested that even if PRC officials had made themselves available for interview, they would have been unlikely to have said anything that deviated from publicly-disseminated state policy.

To both inform and supplement the interviews and ethnography described above, a wide variety of documents were collected and analyzed, including but not limited to: 1) ROC and PRC state tourism policy and statistics; 2) ROC and PRC travel industry documents, including sales and marketing materials, tour itineraries, and guide training guidelines; 3) Forms and other documents that facilitate and regulate cross-strait travel, including entry/exit permits, passports, and mandatory identification papers; 4) Chinese-language guidebooks and internet sites about

Taiwan travel; 5) print, TV, and blog posts about cross-Strait travel, whether produced by PRC tourists or Taiwanese; and 6) Taiwanese public opinion polls regarding national identity,

27 sovereignty, and tourism, including ongoing long-term projects from academic units such as

National Chengchi University’s Election Study Center and National Science Council-funded research.

Field note and interview data were compared and contrasted with ethnographic content analysis of tourist documents to assess how travel permits, tourist itineraries, site descriptions, and other tourist media produce, cite, confirm, delimit, or undermine discursive boundaries between Taiwan and China. This included attention to cartographic representations in various state documents (including entry permits and forms) and industry documents (including guide books and tour itineraries).

1.4 Structure of dissertation

The structure of the dissertation and its chapters is as follows: Following this introduction, Chapter Two explicates and connects fundamental theoretical concepts including state territoriality, sovereignty, and borders. My treatment of the state will draw particularly from

Foucault and his followers’ accounts of governmentality, Mitchell’s description of the state as a

“structural effect” (1991), and Painter’s definition of the state as an “imagined collective actor”

(2006). This chapter includes further review of past work on migration and borders and an extension of such scholarship’s insights to the field of tourism. It presents tourism as a technology of state territorialization and uses notions of performativity to link tourism and political protest with the processes of state territorialization. This theoretical approach also implies the ethnographic methodology used in this study.

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Chapter Three traces the recent rapid rise of Chinese tourism to Taiwan, including a brief history of cross-Strait relations, (im)mobility and institutional arrangements, and the past and present political instrumentality of tourism for the ROC and PRC in wider domains, including

Hong Kong and communities. It pays special attention to the performance of territory and nation as found in official documents and mobility regulation devices. It includes analysis of data from my interviews with negotiators and administrators of cross-Strait tourism policy, as well as review of available quantitative polling data on Taiwanese sentiment regarding

Chinese tourists.

Chapter Four begins the ethnographic section of the dissertation with an examination of the practice and effects of tourism on particular iconic spaces within Taiwan, including Sun

Moon Lake and Taipei 101. This chapter will utilize the territorial and performativity theories developed in Chapter Two and Chapter Three, as well as Foucault’s preliminary concept of

“heterotopia” (Foucault 1986), to argue that cross-Strait tourism produces exceptional spaces that give an impression of multiple, overlapping sovereignties. In particular, this chapter includes a detailed discussion of anti-CCP Falun Gong demonstrators, pro-PRC protesters, and pro-Taiwan independence counter-protestors prevalent at the Taipei 101 skyscraper.

Chapter Five provides an ethnographic account and analysis of a full 8-day tour of

Taiwan with a Chinese tour group. In this study, conducted in August 2014, I booked and joined a tour group from Shanghai. A step beyond simple observation, this immersive experience shed light on the way a tour guide can narrate a destination from start to finish, the relationship and interaction between guide and tourist, the experiential shaping of time spent in transit (which on many days was longer than actual site visitation time), and on the complex and often-obscured

29 industrial circuits of shopping and hotel destinations. It concludes that this tour group was effectively treated to a performance of Taiwan as a part of China.

Chapter Six turns from the group tourist to the independent tourist. Based on ethnography and interviews conducted at a variety of tourist sites, as well as qualitative document analysis of widely-circulated blog posts by independent tourists, it profiles a variety of independent tourists and their perceptions of Taiwan and its relations with China. It is less an exhaustive typology of all available tourists and tourist experiences and more a presentation of the multiplicity of possible tourist interpretations and experiences of Taiwan. Read against the previous chapter, it also demonstrates the political peculiarity and instrumentality of the dominant discursive modes of group tourism.

Chapter Seven provides an in-depth, ethnographic treatment of the Sunflower Movement, which includes special attention to the position of tourism in controversial trade agreements, the revealed cleavages in Taiwanese society, the movement’s impacts on Taiwanese political culture vis a vis China, and its ramifications for the future of cross-Strait relations and tourism. The chapter also includes a comparative treatment of the role of Chinese tourism in sparking and sustaining the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement, as well as a discussion of the influence of the

Sunflower Movement on the Umbrella Movement. It also explores the latter’s possible influence on Taiwan’s 2014 and 2016 elections and its implications for Taiwan’s territorial future.

The conclusion, Chapter Eight, connects and summarizes the threads of the previous chapters before briefly extending the general argument to the South China Sea, another contested area in which tourism’s political instrumentality is evident and its outcome is uncertain.

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Chapter 2

Tourism as a technology of state territorialization

Millions of tourists cross borders every year. Passports in hand, these tourists act as the citizen-subjects of the various nation-states of the world. They travel for any number of reasons.

When they cross borders from their own country into another and then return home, they, I contend, are not only carrying memories and souvenirs—they, along with border agents and airlines, travel agents and tour operators, are enacting and performing the borders that they are crossing and the state territories that they are traversing. In this chapter, I will use theories of governmentality and performativity to analyze the relationship between the state, territory, citizenship, borders, and mobility. This framework is directed not only at the case of tourism from China to Taiwan, but for a geopolitical analysis of tourism more broadly.

This argument is informed by a Foucauldian “analytics of government” (Foucault 2009;

Lemke 2007; Rose and Miller 1992), one that does not treat the state as a unitary subject with autonomous powers or necessary or timeless functions. Nor does this approach assume the a priori existence of its subjects as atomized, autonomous individuals. Rather, such an analytic instead looks to ensembles of relations and practices of government that conjure and produce the state and its citizens not just as agents, but as effects of power. Such relations and practices include technologies of power and technologies of the self, “each a matrix of practical reason”

31 that human beings use to dominate each other’s bodies and minds, and also to shape themselves as subjects with self-knowledge (Foucault 1988, 16).

I choose this approach in part because it is far more appropriate to the ambiguity and complexity of stateness in a contested place like Taiwan. Any theoretical position—be it that of mainstream international relations, structural Marxism, or otherwise—that takes the coherence and unity of the state for granted, or attempts to reduce the structure or motivation of its constituents to competing economic interests will miss Taiwan’s complexity and ambiguity.

Indeed, a strong case could be made—and often is, by politicians and pundits—that unification is in the economic interests of a wide swath of Taiwan’s electorate. Yet, Taiwanese national identification and independence sentiment have risen steadily (National Chengchi University

Election Study Center 2015). Given such shifts, rather than explaining away the state or making predictions about it based on economically deterministic arguments, or even more unjustifiably taking the state for granted as an a priori entity, I am more interested in the everyday practices and discourses that make the state legible and constitute individuals as citizens, foreign nationals, something in-between, or something else entirely.

Everyday practices and discourses of government are not limited to the level of the individual human body, and also scale up towards totalizing entities such as the state and its . Connecting these two directions, Foucault’s later work explores the “contact between the technologies of domination of others and those of the self” (1988, 17). Such technologies never produce truly finished subjects and objects—each is always in a state of flux, of becoming, of change, contradiction, rupture, and reformation.

Such an approach illuminates the mutual constitution of both the state and its subjects through technologies of power and the self, including, I argue, the practices and discourses that

32 constitute and facilitate tourism mobilities. This conceptualization demands a more historical approach to the study of the state and its subjects, and indeed to the specificities of the global interstate system, than what is found in most contemporary tourism research. Such a detailed approach is necessary for the case of Taiwan and cross-Strait tourism, where everyday assumptions about the exclusive territory of the nation-state and its citizen-subjects break down.

In addition to the historical and theoretical precision suggested by this argument, there is an additional methodological reason for shifting the scale of analysis from the state to government and governmentalities: The broadening of the lens to include “micro-powers” in addition to “macro-powers”, suggested Foucault, should afford an analytical approach as applicable for the management of mental patients as for debating economic policy. “[T]he analysis of micro-powers is not a question of scale, and it is not a question of a sector, it is a question of a point of view” (186).

Foucault himself was reticent to provide any theory of the state. “…I do, I want to, I must do without a theory of the state, as one can and must forgo an indigestible meal,” said Foucault in his The Birth of Biopolitics lecture series (Foucault 2008, 76-77). Yet, he persisted by changing the terms of the discussion. Foucault was not attempting in his analyses to “cancel the presence and the effect of state mechanisms” (77), nor deny histories of state violence, regulation, and so on. Foucault proposed instead to view the state through the lens of

“governmentalities”, modes of government that describe “the way[s] in which one conducts the conduct of men [sic]” (186). “Government” here refers to relations and apparatuses of power broader than those typically attributed to the state. This use of “government” recovers an older, broader, pre-18th century sense of the word, which referred to the management of one’s self, one’s family, the spiritual world, and other spheres of action (88-9).

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In this move, Foucault turned the analysis from one that treats the state as a real entity, with its own essence and capacity to act autonomously, to one that allows a more precise look at the different practices, both discursive and material, that allow various powers and apparatuses of regulation, discipline, security, surveillance, and care to be attributed to something called the

“state”. Thus, instead of the “state’s takeover of society”, we rather have the

“‘governmentalization’ of the state” (2009, 109). As clarified by Rose and Miller (2010, 275):

…[t]he question is no longer one of accounting for government in terms of ‘the power of the State’, but of ascertaining how, and to what extent, the state is articulated into the activity of government: what relations are established between political and other authorities; what funds, forces, persons, knowledge or legitimacy are utilised; and by means of what devices and techniques are these different tactics made operable.

Foucault was careful to note that he was not suggesting that various “institutions” or

“elements” now attributed to the state, such as the military, or courts, or taxation, did not exist prior to the emergence of the modern state, but that the “the state” may be usefully approached as a “schema of intelligibility for a whole set of already established institutions, a whole set of given realities” (Foucault 2009, 286).

Foucault began his -centric history of governmentality with an account of pastoral power, such as that of the relation between God and man, mediated and mirrored via the relationship between religious leader and his flock, which is aimed at the improvement or salvation of a multiplicity of people on the move. This is distinct from another medieval mode, the juridical power exemplified by Machiavelli’s The Prince, which posits a sovereign monarch not part of but external and transcendent to his principality, whose primary concern is maintaining control over a principality defined in terms of a bounded or expanding space in

34 which his sovereignty prevails. In this conception, the primary object of rule is the territory itself, and secondarily the things and people within its container.

Foucault claims that with the development of new political rationalities in the 16th and

17th centuries, the target of sovereign power changed from territory to things, masses of people, and a new entity called a “population”. This “population”, irreducible to the family which is now only an element and instrument of it, needed to be managed by new “arts of government” and the techniques of “political economy”. These arts of government are not merely the techniques used by the sovereign to maintain control over a territory to which he is external, as in the medieval or

Machiavellian conception, but include calculative tactics and strategies for regulating and promoting the well-being of the population. These articulate through the development and deployment of “apparatuses of security”, facilitating the circulation and biopolitical management of people and goods within and between territories.

With the development of these new arts and rationalities of government, and the diffusion of regimes of conduct that spanned and connected individual “citizens” and new totalities such as the modern state, Foucault finds “the beginnings of an autonomous rationality of government not reducible to a reflection on the personage of the prince or the principles of divine order” (Dean

2010, 102). This modern state is thus distinct from earlier medieval conceptions of sovereign power—it is immanent to a territory and targets the well-being of its own population. This is also different from earlier pastoral forms of power as articulated through religious authority. As put by Dean, “Reason of the state breaks with Christian and judicial notions of government in terms of God’s revelation and commandments, and ideas of government in accordance with divine, natural, or even human law” (Dean 2010, 105). The maintenance of the state and management of

35 the population supersedes the perpetuation of the prince’s transcendent authority as the new

“reason of the state”.

What purchase does this approach give to territory, which is key to the Taiwan question, and yet is somewhat displaced by Foucault’s shift of focus towards population? As Elden notes,

“what is striking is how territory itself is marginalized in Foucault’s telling of the story… [but still] Foucault is providing an important way to understand the relation between governmental practices and territory… The same kinds of mechanisms that Foucault looks at in relation to population are used to understand and control territory” (2007, 577).

How to put this proposed point of view to work? As Lemke notes, “Foucault's 'genealogy of governmentality' is more of a fragmentary sketch than an elaborated theory, and most of it is to be found in lectures that were never prepared for publication” (Lemke 2007, 45). Rose and

Miller provided a widely-cited schematic framework for Foucault’s proposal, distinguishing between political rationalities—moral, epistemological, and idiomatic ways of imagining the political that have a kind of “temporary durability”—and programs and technologies of government, which point to particular political aims and the methods to achieve them.

Before continuing by providing working definitions of the state and state territory, I would like to briefly qualify and limit my appropriation of Foucault and “governmentality” studies. I suggest that this broad conceptualization, which considers how different rationalities and technologies of government produce effects of stateness, can provide a useful beginning for an analysis of Taiwan, a polity with most of the qualities attributed to states, including a military, president, and formal diplomatic relations with a number of other self-described state entities.

Yet, this approach is not without potential pitfalls.

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While Foucault’s lectures spawned a whole world of “governmentality studies,” his followers have not yet attempted to comprehensively account for how such “schema of intelligibility” emerge and cohere in the case of contested de facto states. They also have not considered what these fragmentary theories imply for a contested state like Taiwan whose modern subjectivity is partly constituted by a nominally democratic politics in opposition to an authoritarian irredentism such as that of China. Furthermore, by imbuing a kind of solid quality to a fundamentally mobile and mutable construct, debates about differences between “liberal” versus “authoritarian” governmentalities (Dean 2010) remain unresolved and largely unhelpful to the present study.

A comprehensive treatment of Taiwan’s emergent or de facto statehood is beyond the scope of this dissertation. I also choose to take no stand in interminable debates about the value of a concept like “authoritarian governmentality,” which developed as an attempt to apply the theoretical innovations of Foucault, Rose and Miller (1992), Hindess, Dean (2002, 2010) and other scholars generally more focused on liberalism to different targets such as the PRC (Jeffreys and Sigley 2009) and Suharto-era (Philpott 2000). In general, I am sympathetic to

Hindess’s (1996) argument that “liberal” and “authoritarian” rationalities and strategies of biopolitical management have more in common than they do not, even if they may vary in their modes and mechanisms.

Apart from these ongoing debates, so much of the governmentality-inspired literature is so consumed by questions of technical mapping and calculation that its purchase for other forms of geopolitical analysis can almost seem occluded (for example, see Hannah 2009; Rose- redwood 2008; Elden 2010, 2005). What I would particularly like to recover and deploy from this burgeoning literature is its nuanced treatment of “technologies of power,” including the

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“subjectivation” or subject-formation of national citizens and nominal state actors in the realization of particular political projects. In this capacity, this point of view proves useful for a of tourism.

2.1 Governmentality and the state as an “imagined collective actor”

How to characterize the state in a way appropriate for a political geography of tourism?

Foucault, for his part, having displaced the state as the target of analysis in favor of government and governmentalities, concluded that the state should be seen as “nothing else but the mobile effect of a regime of multiple governmentalities” (2008, 77). Borrowing from Foucault and making a somewhat similar point, Mitchell has suggested that the state has no material reality, should not be treated as separate from society, and would better be viewed as a “structural effect”:

That is to say, it should be examined not as an actual structure, but as the powerful, metaphysical effect of practices that make such structures appear to exist… The state should be addressed as an effect of detailed processes of spatial organization, temporal arrangement, functional specification, and supervision and surveillance, which create the appearance of a world fundamentally divided into state and society (1991, 94–5).

While I will not be treating the state as anything real, material, or unitary, there is no question that the powers attributed to the state are quite real, or that the actors drawing on it as a resource are not calling on a powerful idea. Reconciling the state’s elusiveness as an object of analysis with its apparent power presents some conceptual and definitional difficulties. Abrams

38 sees the state as “itself the mask which prevents our seeing political practice as it is” (1988, 82).

His solution is to abandon the study of the state as a real entity and rather study it as an idea used by individuals and institutions acting in its name. This move is particularly appropriate for

Taiwan, where there is both widespread external and internal disagreement over the legitimacy and definition of the state.

Putting Mitchell and Abrams together, Painter offers the following definition of the state as an imagined collective actor. It is in this sense that I will be referring to the state, whether

PRC, ROC, Taiwan, US, or otherwise, in this dissertation:

Building on Mitchell’s and Abrams’ interpretations, it makes sense to define ‘the state’ as an imagined collective actor in whose name individuals are interpellated (implicitly or explicitly) as citizens or subjects, aliens or foreigners, and which is imagined as the source of central political authority for a national territory. The use of ‘imagined’ here does not mean that relationships and processes involved are illusory: social imaginaries can have very real effects. Moreover, the practices, mechanisms and institutions through which processes of interpellation take place are very real. (Painter 2006, 758)

To illustrate this point, he uses the passport in a travel-appropriate analogy:

When I apply for a passport identifying me as a citizen of a state, the passport, the office and the officials that issue it, and the border post through which it allows me to pass all exist. However, the state in whose name they function is neither an aggregation of these elements, nor a separate reality behind them, but a symbolic resource on which they draw to produce their effects. (Painter 2006, 758)

This treatment of the state, I hope, will be the most productive approach for a study of practices attributed to it without reifying its actual existence. It implies that studies of the practices, products, and performances of the foreign policy elite, the border guard, and the

39 passport holder are all essential for understanding state technologies for the control of mobility in general and tourism in particular.

2.2 State territory, sovereignty, citizenship and the modern inter-state system

The holder, and the tourist in general, is of course not moving in a space-less world. Having defined the state in a way that directs our focus to the practices that invoke its name and give rise to state effects while acknowledging the state’s power as an idea, I will now trace connections between the state, territory, sovereignty, and citizenship.

Elden’s general gloss serves as a useful starting point for exploring territory as a concept and set of practices: “Territory is more than merely land, but a rendering of the emergent concept of ‘space’ as a political category: owned, distributed, mapped, calculated, bordered, and controlled” (2007, 579). I will use state territorialization to refer specifically to those practices and processes by which space is rendered or configured as belonging to, bounded by, and subject to the sovereignty of that collective actor imagined as a particular state. To contextualize this concept of state territorialization through the lens of shifting governmentalities, it is apropos to point out the contingency of the construction and division of space into exclusive (nation-)state territories, which is a relatively new and distinctly modern practice. As put by Ruggie (1993,

144), “[T]he central attribute of modernity in international politics has been a peculiar and historically unique configuration of territorial space”; that is, the modern interstate system.

The unresolved status of China and Taiwan’s sovereignty and territory challenge assumptions of the neatness and exclusivity of borders and state territory in the modern inter- state system. Chengxin Pan (2010) has suggested that the “Taiwan conundrum” is precisely due to a “cross-Strait normative convergence on the Westphalian notion of state sovereignty”. Wu

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(2007) has argued that the PRC’s only possible claim to Taiwan uses the arguments of

Westphalian sovereignty—freedom from external meddling in a state’s domestic affairs—but only if one accepts that Taiwan falls within PRC borders. Despite this, the PRC has shown a degree of conceptual and practical flexibility in the nominal sovereignty and administration of

Hong Kong and Macau, and official PRC foreign policy publications have proposed a similar multiple sovereignty-type arrangement for Taiwan (Callahan 2004). But despite these flexible arrangements, and despite growing interest in and development of distinctly “Chinese” culturalist or civilizationist geopolitical rationalities (Callahan 2008; Agnew 2012), the contemporary sovereign territorial dispute between the PRC and Taiwan articulates primarily in the terms of the modern interstate system and is played out among international or trans-national bodies including the United Nations, the World Trade Organization, and so on.

Citizenship is a key governmental technology which links individuals with and state territory. It is deployed to confer and delimit political rights and privileges, and to regulate mobility. “In a world of politically independent and competing nation-states, citizenship plays a fundamental role in rendering governable a global population of thousands of millions by dividing it into smaller subpopulations of particular nation-states” (Hindess 2000, 1487). Stated this way, citizenship can be seen not simply as the prerogative of particular states, but as part of a distinctly modern and global governmentality in which the global circulation of people is to be managed on behalf of both the global population and smaller national subpopulations.

Citizenship grants rights of affiliation and belonging while circumscribing others, including the right of mobility. This technology allows for the control of mobility, predicated on new understandings of inclusion/exclusion from a population or territory, and with it, the identity of the state territory itself.

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The claim of states over territory has proven to be an effective and persistent tool for the assertion of control over space (Ruggie 1993; Kratochwil 1986; Taylor 1994), but territory and sovereignty are not necessarily conceptually tied to the existence of the state. Sovereignty itself is best examined following an analytic disaggregation. First, to distinguish between sovereignty and state territory: Sovereignty has typically referred to the authority exerted by a “sovereign” power (monarchs, emperors, populations of nation-states, religious leaders) over a given space or people. Sovereignty does not necessarily require territory. For example, religious leaders such as the Pope have had putatively absolute authority or sovereignty over subjects in jurisdictions defined not by territory, but by religious community or personal affiliation.1

The case of Taiwan and China is a prime example of why rather than staying stuck with a singular concept of state territoriality or sovereignty, scholars if not states should examine multiple, potentially overlapping forms of sovereignty and non-sovereignty, or even “graduated sovereignty” (Ong 1999). Contingent analyses of sovereignty in “exceptional” cases have already contributed to innovative conceptualizations about the connections between sovereignty and territory, and the flexibility, malleability, and slipperiness of these ideas and practices. For example, McConnell’s provocative account (2009) of the Tibetan (TGiE) in India argues that the TGiE performs some state functions—such as administration and public welfare—within spaces like Dharamsala that are internationally recognized as within India’s sovereign territory, while claiming to perform other state functions, including diplomacy and symbolic projection of power, for territory over which it has no administrative control (the

1 That the PRC and the Vatican do not recognize the sovereignty of each other, and that the Vatican maintains official relations with the ROC, adds an extra wrinkle of irony to the variegated sovereignties of both the PRC and the Catholic Church.

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“Tibetan Autonomous Region”, occupied and administered by China). To account for this, she proposes the idea of “displaced sovereignty”, suggesting that “the idea of displacement breaks down the assumed correlation of sovereignty with a single bounded territory, yet does not eschew the link between sovereignty and territory altogether” (348-9). Such an idea could perhaps extend beyond this particular case and apply, for example, to a pro-PRC demonstrator in

Taiwan who claimed she was actually in China and therefore felt justified in flying PRC flags and flouting local law, as I will discuss in Chapter Four.

As much as I am calling for an analytic decoupling of state territory and sovereignty, and treating the state as an imagined actor, I am not claiming that the state as such is withering away in the face of “globalization”, which was a popular move in late 20th century scholarship. Indeed, criticism of state-centric thinking have been described as the “unifying theme of contemporary globalization research” (Brenner 1999, 40), which emerged along with a postmodern turn in social and political theory (Ruggie 1993). Challenges to the supposed territorial integrity and exclusivity of the modern nation-state were observed with the rise of supranational organizations such as the EU and ASEAN (Brenner 1999), and a move towards of “security-oriented geopolitics” following the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 (Falk 2002, 311). Facts “on the ground”, however, do not indicate that the state has simply disappeared in the face of globalization. In some cases, new states have even formed and gained international recognition following eruptions of in the Balkans and elsewhere, and Taiwan and perhaps even Hong Kong may be on this path as well. In fact, Kolossov and O’Loughlin have argued, using a world-system theoretical perspective, that the demise of states in the face of globalization would essentially be an impossibly paradoxical outcome:

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…globalization will never lead to a ‘spaceless’ world, or to a world without national boundaries. On the contrary, globalization depends on the partition of space between states, and to the increasing extent, between regions and cities, because capital can only circulate between different legal spaces created within the states and/or regions and with the support of their guarantees. (1998, 261).

Such a point is particularly acute in the case of China, where zoning technologies and experimental economic zones have facilitated the emergence of the PRC as a global economic player. While fully addressing the globalization literature is beyond the scope of this dissertation, in sum, I suggest that instead of fooling us into prematurely bidding goodbye to the idea or practices of state sovereignty, globalization research should instead prompt us to reconsider it.

As put by Brenner:

[T]he effort to escape the "territorial trap” of state-centrism does not entail a denial of the state's continued relevance as a major geographical locus of social power, but rather a rethinking of the meaning of both state territoriality and political space in an era of intensified globalization. (1999, 41)

In other words, rather than seeing the disappearance of the nation-state as an idea or set of practices, we are witnessing reconfigurations and reinterpretations of it. Therefore, as much as

I argue against reifying the state or centering it in my analysis, the power wielded by actors that invoke its name shows no sign of withering. Even if it is not taken seriously as a unitary, autonomous subject, the state as collectively imagined and deployed still remains an important target of analysis.

Bringing this back to the present case, the emergence of a “” (Callahan

2004) or a “Chinese axis” (Ong 2004) could be seen as a kind of contingent trans-national or

44 supra-national formation, but if anything, as long as they and corresponding concepts of

“Chinese ” (, 中華民族) remain discursive tools wielded by PRC elites, they represent more a triumph of -centric Chinese nationalism as a technology of government and less an effacement of the modern inter-state system.

2.3 Borders as processes, everywhere

State territory requires borders, which “comprise the basic element in the construction of territories and the practice of territoriality” (Paasi 2003, 112). As put by Brighenti, “The activity of drawing boundaries, while in many cases implicit and even invisible, is the constitutive process of territorialization.” (Brighenti 2010, 61). But borders are not simply lines on the map, or state institutions or practices that are manifested or enacted in specific sites, but also

“processes that exist in socio-cultural action and discourses” (Paasi 1998, 72). These processes saturate sites designated for border crossing, such as land border stations and airports. While such sites are crucial for observing the material and affective geopolitics of the everyday (Jansen

2009; Burrell 2008), borders are also discursively produced elsewhere through routine performance of the nation-state and its territory in national iconography, media, and education systems (Balibar 2002; Paasi 1998, 2000), and should therefore be examined in broader and even

“banal” domains (Billig 1995).

Borders are typically treated as fundamental components of the modern world of sovereign territorial states, demarcating where the territory of one state begins and another ends.

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However, a case can be made that borders are not only located at territorial boundaries. I will argue, borrowing from Paasi (2009, 215), that, “borders should not be seen solely as phenomena located at the ‘edges’ of territories, but rather as ‘all over’ territories… Borders literally take place at, and bring together, diverging ‘historical scales’: episodes, events, and institutional structures.”

Paasi explains that the “borders as everywhere” concept can be divided into two components: First, that a border is part of the “discursive landscapes of social power that manifests itself both in national ideology and in material landscapes… in the first sense, borders are ‘located’ in the perpetual nation-building process and nationalist practices, and their roots have to be traced in the histories of these national practices” (Paasi 2009, 225). In this sense, borders are performed or enacted whenever the nation is evoked, in books and newspapers, in speeches and performances, from the Declaration of Independence to the daily recitation of the

Pledge of Allegiance in US schools, or from the state daily newspapers to the Mass Games of

North Korea. Moreover, this process is reciprocal—as subjects enact borders, so do borders enact subjects.

A second sense of the “borders as everywhere” concept is that they function as part of

“technical landscapes of control”, and exist in places like airports which are located well within the conventional territorial boundaries, but contain signage and institutional apparatuses that explicitly declare and enact a national border, and perform functions of control and surveillance.

This important sense of “borders as everywhere” is owed to Balibar (2002), but as Salter argues,

“border functions occur at specific sites” (2008, 371). That is to say, even if borders can be viewed as extending everywhere in sovereign space, the functions of the border—inclusion and exclusion, interrogation and questioning, surveillance and control—cohere at designated sites

46 such as immigration checkpoints and physical borders. In other words, even if “borders are everywhere”, they still have distinct that deserve contextualized study.

The relations between borders, memory, identity, and consciousness are ripe fields for a study of the performance of spatial politics even well within the territorial confines of borders.

As Kolossov and O’Loughlin have noted, “A starting point for border studies…should be the analysis of identity formation and change, with territorial dimensions as a central theme” (1998,

260). The complex processes that link these fields and dimensions have engendered their own terms. Paasi has proposed the term “spatial socialization” to describe the way in which individual actors or collectives are socialized into territorially bounded units, and participate with and reproduce the identities thus engendered by such a process. Newman uses a more specific term,

“territorial socialization”, and has observed that it is often places that are just outside the political border but still within a nationally imagined boundary that become perceived as crucial to the integrity of the political unit, and therefore become potential sites of conflict (Newman 1999).

Sites such as the Tomb of the Patriarchs in the West Bank are perhaps the most reported examples (at least in the US press) of the religious possibilities of such perception. While religion is not an important factor in the cross-Strait case, Taiwan serves a similar function in the

Chinese national imagination (Teng 2004).

2.4 Performativity and the state

To operationalize my theory of tourism as a technology of state territorialization, it is time to introduce one more major theoretical strand. Complementing governmentality, the

47 second pillar of my conceptual framework is borrowed from performance and performativity theory. Performance as a metaphor for social life has been used in Anglophone discourse at least since Shakespeare’s famous line, “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.” The question of subjectivity—of who is doing the performing, and how is this subject formed—is key to any theorization of performance that hopes to have any purchase for an analysis of social life.

Goffman’s work on performance and roles (1959), with its focus on dramaturgy, staging, front and back sections and so on, has been influential through the social sciences, including

MacCannell’s classic contribution to tourism studies, The Tourist (1976). But as Butler points out, Goffman “posits a [pre-existing] ‘self’ which assumes and exchanges various roles within the complex social expectations of the ‘game’ of modern life” (Butler 1988, 528). This ontological assumption is not only unnecessary, but also obscures the practices and relations of power that produce essentialized subjects. Butler’s response was to de-essentialize pre-given categories of self, particularly those of sex and gender; in other words, to not look at the self or its roles but rather the “‘act’, broadly construed, which constructs the social fiction of its own psychological interiority”. This suggests that “this self is not only irretrievably ‘outside’, constituted in social discourse, but that the ascription of interiority is itself a publically regulated and sanctioned form of essence fabrication” (Butler 1988, 528). Butler’s reworking of performance and performativity does not deny social experience—it is not a “repudiation of the subject, but, rather a way of interrogating its construction as a pregiven or foundationalist premise” (Butler 1992, 9). This approach is explicitly in the spirit of Foucault’s work on the genealogies of knowledge, in which attention to the contingencies of subject formation reveals the relations of power that underpin them. This focus on practice allows Butler to question

48 essentializing assumptions, without ruling out agency or room for subversion or resistance

(Bialasiewicz et al. 2007, 407).

Butler’s theory of performativity as presented in Bodies that Matter (1993) borrows from the speech act theory of J.L. Austin (1962), which explored how a performative speech act can enact or produce that which it names—for example, the “I do” of the wedding ceremony is not just to say something, but to do it—without assuming anything about the ontological status of the actor. This is to say that the stylized repetition of social acts can constitute social subjects that do not necessarily precede the acts themselves. Unlike the simple example of the wedding ceremony, this is not a usually a one-off performance. “Instead of there being a singular moment of constitution or invention that brings subjects into being, there is a process of recitation and repetition… that is constrained by cultural and historical practices, but which also gives rise to new formations and possibilities” (Bialasiewicz et al. 2007, 407). In the case of gender, or I suggest also, nationality or other forms of identity, these performances are reiterated over time to produce a subject position with a kind of temporary durability.

Butler’s argument is also owed to Derrida’s reformulation of the performative, in which

“the performative utterance becomes a derivative citation rather than a founding act by an originating subject” (Allen 1998, 462). That is to say, the “I do” of the marriage act can only have meaning if it is derivatively citing a norm or model that is given meaning or power by those present. Performatives are not limited to verbal utterances. Foster (1998), applying Butler’s gender theory to dance choreography, has explored the performativity of other, non-verbal gestures. And it is not only gender that has been deconstructed using Butler’s iteration of performativity theory—Mahtani (2002), for example, has explored the intersections of the performance of race and gender at the border.

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While infused with power and shaped by sociospatial context, performativity does not completely determine any outcome. As Butler writes:

[performativity] is not a singular ‘act’ or event, but a ritualized production, a ritual reiterated under and through constraint, under and through the force of prohibition and taboo, with the threat of ostracism and even death controlling and compelling the shape of the production, but not, I will insist, determining it fully in advance” (1993, 95).

Butler’s caveat here—her room for openings, ruptures, and dissonance—was anticipated by Austin’s and Derrida’s focus on the possible failure of performatives. As McKinlay writes in an insightful consideration of Austin’s influence on Butler, “The ways that performatives fail are their most interesting theoretical and empirical feature, not the limit cases where there is near perfect citation of established rituals and identities” (2010, 139). This important point will be returned to in Chapter Six, which will addresses the varied experiences of independent tourists who do not always stay on script.

Despite Butler’s version of performativity being used increasingly frequently in , particularly in discussions of embodied subjects (Nash 2000), it is relatively underutilized in political geography (Bialasiewicz et al. 2007). Tourism, with its sensuous, embodied, and semiotically-rich characteristics, as well as its neglected political stakes, is an important and even less explored domain for an application of Butler’s performativity theory.

While there is already a growing body of literature on tourist performance (Edensor 2000;

2008; Haldrup and Larsen 2010; Crang 2006), there is less to be found on tourist performativity.

To understand why this matters, it is important to both distinguish and link performance and performativity. As noted by McKinlay, Austin’s coinage of the word performativity was

50 itself performed only reluctantly. He saw it as a “new and ugly word” , feeling perhaps the same discomfort as Barthes did when he used governmentality, a “barbarous but unavoidable neologism” (quoted in Lemke 2007, 44), or Foucault with his reuse of the “ugly word” (2009,

115) as the center of his theory of the state. But as with “governmentality”, “performativity” is a useful coinage, as performativity points to something much broader and deeper than performance. As described by Bialasiewicz et al:

Performativity is a discursive mode through which ontological effects (the idea of the autonomous subject or the notion of the pre-existing state) are established. Performativity thereby challenges the notion of the naturally existing subject. But it does not eradicate the appearance of the subject or the idea of agency. Performance presumes a subject and occurs within the conditions of possibility brought into being by the infrastructure of performativity (2007, 408).

Gregson and Rose make much the same point, however blunter ontologically, and then proceed to help push Butler’s theory beyond linguistics, or even human actors, and towards the production of space:

…[P]erformance—what individual subjects do, say, “act-out”—and performativity—the citational practices which reproduce and/or subvert discourse and which enable and discipline subjects and their performances—are intrinsically connected, through the saturation of performers with power… Space too needs to be thought of as being brought into being through performances and as a performative articulation of power. And… we want to insist on the complexity and uncertainty of performances and performed spaces (Gregson and Rose 2000, 434).

Gregson and Rose note that much geographic discussion of performance and performativity in the geographical literature focuses on the former sense, that is, on Goffman’s formulation, with its “separation of performer and performance; the sense of performances

51 occupying pregiven kinds of spaces; and a notion of a ‘constraining script’” (2000, 438). They suggest, and I agree, that Butler’s “radical antifoundationalism” offers a better opening for understanding subject formation. With it, we have more hope of understanding the tourist as a mobile subject who not only moves through, but mutually constitutes the modern interstate system. But before further elaborating this point on tourist performativity, it is first necessary to further outline the use of a performative treatment of state territory.

A performative reading of politics is a useful way for understanding the processes that produce the collective imagined actor or structural effect known as the state, and one that has been used not just by critical geographers, but also by critical international relations scholars.

Ashley’s post-structuralist account of state sovereignty has pointed explicitly to its contingency and peculiarity (1988). Walker has likewise called for a detailed examination of the practices that materialize state sovereignty (1993). Taking this farther is David Campbell, who explicitly applied Butler’s work to state and interstate politics. Connecting the individual border crosser to analysis of the state, Campbell’s practice-oriented, performative view of foreign policy is illuminating:

Foreign policy is… to be retheorized as a boundary-producing practice central to the production and reproduction of the identity in whose name it operates. The consequence of this argument is a fundamental reorientation of foreign policy that shifts from a concern with relations between states across ahistorical, frozen, and pregiven boundaries to a concern with the establishment of the boundaries that constitute, at one and the same time, the state and the international system, the domestic and the external, the sovereign and the anarchic. (1990)

In other words, the practice of foreign policy itself constitutes the effect of the nation- state, self and other, internal and external, domestic and foreign, home and abroad. This idea of foreign policy as performative has been used in particular to explore the statements of foreign

52 policy elites (in all their diversity and heterogeneity) as themselves performative of foreign policy functions, or even partly constituting the state. In particular, Campbell has focused on the discursive practices by which the “” is produced (1998). This approach from critical

International Relations complements the concern about discourse and representation within critical geopolitics (Ó Tuathail 1996; Dalby and O’Tuathail 1996).

Crucial to Campbell’s conception, informed by the historical moment of the end of the

Cold War and US military intervention in Iraq and Bosnia, is the discursive production of the

“enemy”, the Other, the foreign, the outside, to which the Self, the domestic, the inside of the home state is constructed. I suggest that this is as unnecessary assumption—that while an opposition between self and other may be required for a politics of difference, an “enemy” is not necessary for foreign policy. In the case of Taiwan and China, “the other” is often portrayed as the racial, national or ethnic self, destabilizing the fixity of an imagined “enemy”, even in the context of a territorial dispute.

2.5 Border performances and the production of (inter)national subjects

Assuming that boundaries are enacted or activated not only by restricting flows of bodies but by enabling them, regimes of border-crossing are imbricated with the performance of foreign policy. Therefore, ethnographic study of border-crossing, and tourism with it, has much to add to discussion about the imaginative geographies of territoriality. As put by Steinberg:

If indeed the modern system of territorial sovereignty—with its binary distinction between insides and outsides—rests on a discursive construction of fixity as the

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domain of the political and mobility as the domain of the economic, then a good place to begin deconstructing the distinction between inside and outside might be through an investigation of the (hidden) role of mobility in the construction of the political (2009, 473).

My particular concern here is to demonstrate how the regulation of mobility produces nationalized and internationalized mobile subjects which mutually constitute the modern interstate system of sovereign nation-states. In a similar vein, and in consonance with the discussion above about citizenship as a technology of government, Salter argues, in a

Foucauldian tenor, that the international population is managed by a “global mobility regime” of passports, visas, and border-crossing sites:

The nascent global mobility regime through passport, visa, and frontier formalities manages an international population through and within a biopolitical frame and a confessionary complex that creates bodies that understand themselves to be international. (2006, 168).

Extending this argument to tourism as one particular mode of mobility, I posit that the border performances of the global mobility regime mutually constitute the tourist and the sovereign nation-state. Again, borrowing from Salter, “Routine performance of the border (on both citizens and foreigners) creates the subject and the sovereign through the submission of the traveler and the recognition of the sovereign” (2008, 373). These performances are reiterated, stylized, and structured, both producing and produced by the state.

The existence of this mobility regime and these performances is, like the division of space into mutually exclusive state territories, a modern, contingent development. The global control of mobility and its linkage to citizenship is relatively recent—a “twentieth century

54 phenomenon” (Dauvergne 2004, 589). While Dauvergne notes that devices such as passports emerged earlier, their use was not necessarily mandatory to cross between the generally more fluid national boundaries that prevailed prior to the 20th century. But it is not just migration or the right to resettle that became regulated, but all forms of mobility between international borders. “The first modern institutionalization of the global mobility regime” was the 1920

Conference on Passports, Customs Formalities and Through Tickets (Salter 2006, 177). This formalized a move of responsibility for controlling travel from the sending to the receiving state, through the linkage of the passport—a device which represents a sending state’s permission for an individual over whom it has sovereignty to cross the border—to the visa, which represents a kind of permission to enter a receiving state.

The border is where the global mobility regime materializes. At stake at each border- crossing is the definition of the border-crosser, and the determination of whether or not the

“arrival” belongs to the population. It is a judgment of inclusion or exclusion, and as demonstrated by ethnographic accounts, the many embodied contingencies—the details of accent, of dress, of race and gender and class—have led several scholars to conclude that pronouncements by border guards, as well as the answers and self-definition by border crossers are intrinsically performative (Amoore 2006; Wonders 2006; Salter 2008).

The border is not a neutral space. Even welcome migrants may be subject to interrogation. Salter writes, “In the border interrogation, what is a natural right – mobility – is presented as deviant, as abnormal, as requiring explanation. What is invented – state sovereignty

– becomes unquestionable” (2008, 373). While I take no issue with his latter point about the reiteration of state sovereignty, I am not persuaded that international mobilities are portrayed as deviant in all border crossings. Salter insists that “the structure of the global mobility regime

55 reinforces the act of crossing the frontier as an exceptional act” (2006, 174). I think that many business or leisure travelers, accustomed to border-crossing formalities, may disagree with this characterization, particularly in supra-national blocs with relatively loose and unpoliced borders, such as the European Union. This points, however, to the inequalities inherent in international mobility laws and border practices (Wonders 2006; Mahtani 2002; Dauvergne 2004; Parsley

2003), including visa regimes that permit, for example, citizens of OECD states to more easily cross more borders than citizens of other states (Salter 2006). These issues deserve further attention, but I here would like keep focus broadly on the performativity of any border crossing.

As opposed to the migrant, the tourist’s mobility, instead of being presented as deviant or abnormal, may even be encouraged, if constrained, by both economic and political forces. This recalls Foucault’s discussion about the transition from pre-modern forms of juridical control to liberal apparatuses of security, with their infrastructure that facilitates circulation of human bodies and capital (Foucault 2009, 2008). But still, as with any migration control predicated on national identity and citizenship, the institution of state sovereignty remains unchallenged. What this suggests is that alongside a liberal regime of mobility must come a technology of the self that produces mobile subjects who still understand themselves as citizens of particular nation- states with the right to travel, however constrained.

Border performativity, a term coined by Wonders, links the state, mobile subjects, and the border:

[B]order performativity takes as its theoretical starting point the idea that borders are not only geographically constituted, but are socially constructed via the performance of various state actors in an elaborate dance with ordinary people who seek freedom of movement and identification (2006).

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Exploring this “dance”, in all its specificity, is key to understanding how borders are produced, performed, experienced throughout state-territorialized space. I therefore find

Wonders’ concept quite useful, while recognizing that her definitional opposition of state actors and ordinary people threatens to reinforce the state-society divide that this thesis is attempting to avoid (many of the individual state actors performing the border are no less ordinary in other contexts). The key point here is that if borders function as the key component of state territorialization, then border performativity points to the practices with which the border and mobile subjects are mutually constituted. It is with these practices that the state is produced as an effect and constituted as a resource with its own symbolic productive power.

Both the economic migrant and the leisure tourist move in space. Both cross borders.

Both carry documents if they have or need them: passports and visas, bank statements and health records. Both are subjected to the ritual of the border crossing process, to interrogation and confession upon arrival in foreign or even their own state territories (Salter 2007, 2008). But while the migrant moves for a relatively long duration, and may even surrender his citizenship and right to inclusion within their previous domain in order to join a new national body, the tourist typically travels more temporarily. A migrant may give up his state political identity and assume a new one, even if flexible (Ong 1999), while the tourist maintains her citizenship. But while on tour, the tourist may also find herself identifying more or less with her home country or her destination. Her political affiliations may change. She may move through various national imaginaries. Her performance of state territory may become, as with gender drag (Butler 1990), ironic, parodic, or subversive. Ruptures may appear, affiliations may shift, and identities may be assumed or discarded, if still constrained by normative discourses.

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If, as Salter argues, the global mobility regime produces international subjects, then performances of the border are appropriate sites for research into the performance of the modern interstate system. These of course include sites designated for border crossing, such as land border stations, airports, and so on. But if, as Balibar and Paasi insist, borders are produced everywhere, not just in the frontier, then border performativity, like the performance of the nation, should be examined wherever borders are discursively produced. In the case of the international tourist, such research must, as much as possible, cover all temporal stages of the tourist’s journey, from pre-departure planning, to the border crossing, to the journey in the receiving country, and then the return home. The utterances, the photographs, the stories and reminiscences about self and other, domestic and foreign, internal and external during the tourist journey, at “home”, “abroad”, and “in-between”—all of these belong in a complete study of border performativity in the practice of international tourism. In other words, all of these belong in this study of tourism as a technology of state territorialization.

2.6 Tourist performance and border performativity

Tourism studies has also long used performance as a metaphor. Tourists have often been portrayed as audiences, as spectators, or instead as actors that “gaze” at locals (Urry 2002, borrowing from Foucault). Taking a page from Goffman’s dramaturgical metaphors, MacCannell

(1976) wrote influentially about the stage production of “authentic” local culture for the tourists that came to see them. He distinguished between the front stage, what is produced by locals for tourists, and the backstage of the life space. There is no question that many performances for

58 tourists are altered, fabricated, edited, shortened or extended from their previous iterations, which may cause some confusion or angst for the modern Western tourist in pursuit of authenticity. But we need not assume the a priori reality of some true, pure, or static source for such performances, especially when there are well-documented cases in which initially tourist- oriented performances have been re-appropriated and re-interpreted as local, non-tourist practices. For example, Bruner (2005) has discussed the case of a Balinese couple who requested the performance at their own wedding of a particular frog dance that had initially been developed for tourists. Likewise, the kecak chant, now so emblematic of Balinese religious art culture that it is performed not only for visiting heads of state, but also for the President of

Indonesia during domestic trips, was developed and refined in collaboration with European artist for an international film production. Such cases demonstrate that while certain practices or performances may be developed initially for presentation to tourists, they may later find new and unanticipated significance for the “locals”.

Not only are the cultural (re)appropriations of touristic practices not unidirectional, but tourists perform no less than the toured, despite difference in stakes, staging, and choreography.

Again Bruner is a fine guide for this theme, delicately discussing his own experience as an

“academic expert” accompanying international group tours. He describes the subtlety of group dynamics, and the often ironic self-awareness of his tourists. In my own experience working as a tour director in China in 2006, I saw different group members shifting between roles—one might play the anxious hypochondriac, the other the well-traveled cosmopolitan. One was a consensus- maker for group decisions, while another played brave leader. As in any performance, these roles shifted, reversed, softened or hardened with the passage of time, new experiences on tour, and changes in overall group dynamics.

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Edensor (2000), borrowing from Adler’s description of tourism as “performed art”

(1989), has elaborated on such performances of tourists. He highlights three aspects for analyses:

Temporal and spatial dimensions—where and how tourism is practiced; social and spatial regulation, including how the tourist stage is managed by tour directors, industry actors, or state officials; and issues of power, including self-monitoring of behavior and the disciplinary gaze of fellow tourists or onlookers. These dimensions extend through the various staging sites of tourism, including “enclavic” or “purified” spaces (Sibley 1988) of exclusive hotels and destinations, to the “weakly classified” or heterogeneous spaces where the materiality of everyday life and practice may impinge on the stages that had been set explicitly for tourists. The three dimensions specified by Edensor are useful starting points for analyses of the politics of tourist performance. For example, how are spaces and social interactions regulated? How are foreign tourists permitted to engage with locals? By distinguishing between such spaces, while noting that they need not be treated as strictly discontinuous, and writing separately about guide- led group tours and free individual tours, Chapters Five and Six will further specify the contributions of various actors to the politics and performances of cross-Strait tourism.

Treating tourism as performance affords an exploration of how national borders may be continuously performed by tourists wherever they are, as iterated and cited through their choice of dress, their patterns of speech, their use of national visual, auditory, or even olfactory symbols, their discussions about their place of origin with locals and each other. Tourism can thus be treated as a mode of territorial socialization (Newman 1999) that occurs at least as profoundly outside the home country as inside it. And when traveling in a group of fellow nationals, this effect may be even more pronounced.

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Edensor’s contribution is useful for reconceptualizing productions of tourist space in which not only state and industry actors are seen to be performing roles, but in which the tourists perform as well. Connecting this with Salter’s work on airports and Wonders’ definition of border performativity, we can begin to trace out spaces and circuits of tourism that are not only constructed and performed in sites explicitly deemed as touristic, but at airports and other sites of border crossing, or indeed anywhere tourists go. But a related and deeper question that has only begun to be explored is how the performative practices of tourism produce tourists and the toured as national subjects.

There is already much excellent work about the place of domestic tourist sites in cultural heritage production at home, and its relationship with national imaginaries and development

(Kirshenblatt-Gimblett 1998; DeLyser 1999; Nuryanti 1996; Johnson 1999). What is needed, in line with Neumann (1992) and Oakes (2006), is more research into how the tourists’ experience of the Other affects their own sense of Self, and how the selves and others of the tourist matrix are mutually, performatively constituted. The production of difference and the constitution of

(inter)national subjects through tourism is clearly a kind of bordering process. Recalling

Kolossov and O’Loughlin’s observation that, “A starting point for border studies…should be the analysis of identity formation and change, with territorial dimensions as a central theme” (1998,

260), theories of tourism and state territoriality can be brought into dialogue with each other to conclude that tourism can be treated as a technology of state territorialization.

If as Paasi has argued, “borders are ‘located’ in the perpetual nation-building process and nationalist practices” (2009), it is now time to “locate” the border in the practices of tourism.

Looking then at tourism through the lens of national identity, or at national identity through the lens of tourism, sheds insight on both fields. To do this properly, the question of subject

61 formation must be addressed. This is to ask how the tourist is discursively produced as an

(inter)national subject in the first place, and what constitutes the tourist in opposition to the toured. A viable approach is provided by performativity theory. The citational practices—the boundary-producing acts that divide self and other, the repetitive, stylized rituals labeled as touristic—produce the tourists and the toured, whether as national and/or international subjects.

Such practices materialize as the stages and subjects of tourism.

Treating borders as the constitutive elements of state territorialization, I suggest that tourists and the apparatuses that facilitate and restrict their flows play a part in the processes of state territorialization. The case of cross-Strait tourism, with travel across and between contested borders and territories, is an exceptional opportunity to observe how tourism may reconfigure forms of territorial sovereignty. This study therefore examines the particular sites, nodes, tools, devices, state practices, and performances that constitute cross-strait tourism and state territory.

The passport and visa, the border crossing and the border guard, the tour guide and the tourist, the promotional website and the destination information book—all of these not only represent but perform and therefore produce state territory. Like other performative processes, the ritualized practices that produce these subjects harbor the possibility of a failure of repetition.

With touristic performance subject to changing constraints, prohibitions and taboos—when the contours of state territory and national identity are vague, shifting, and in constant contest, as in the case of China and Taiwan—the potential for breakdowns, ruptures, or novelty multiplies. The remainder of this dissertation puts this theory to work by examining territorial performances and effects in detail.

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Chapter 3

A political history of cross-Strait travel and tourism

“One China, each with its own interpretation.” This performative construction, the so- called “1992 Consensus” was the discursive basis for China-Taiwan political relations, including the regulation and facilitation of tourism, during the 2008 to 2016 presidency of KMT leader Ma

Ying-Jeou. This diplomatic fiction refers to the reconstructed outcome of a series of meetings between quasi-official PRC and ROC representatives in 1992. As these meetings did not actually result in any joint written statements, a “consensus” was produced retrospectively that posits that both sides of the Taiwan Strait belong to one country called “China,” but each side may have different interpretations of what that China is (Saunders and Kastner 2009). In a sense, this approach temporarily maintained the actually exceptional “status quo” of Taiwan’s de facto independence while fueling popular suspicion that forces in both Taiwan and China continued using state and market mechanisms to achieve unification or annexation by China. Tourism, I suggest, has been among the most visible of these mechanisms. Despite these suspicions, in

2010, PRC tourists surpassed Japanese to become the top tourist segment in Taiwan. The numbers have since risen inexorably. This phenomenon muddles the usual foreign/domestic binaries of tourism, and is having profound effects on Taiwan’s cultural landscapes and political discourses.

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To understand how tourism is reconfiguring Taiwan’s ethno-national, linguistic, cultural, and territorial topology, and its relationship with the PRC, it is necessary to briefly outline its geographical position and history. Supported by the work of Taiwan scholars and consonant with the theoretical framework outlined in Chapters One and Two, this account treats Taiwan as a site of multiple, overlapping, and hybrid colonialisms that have produced contested and shifting state and territorial effects. It also goes one step further— I argue, based on interviews with state, quasi-state, and industry officials conducted in Taiwan between 2013 and 2015, that not only do the relations between China and Taiwan reproduce Taiwan’s unusual sovereign status and state practice, but so do the domestic relations between Taiwanese state, quasi-state, and tourism industry sectors. Due to this and other contentious local politics, Taiwan’s own state territorialization program and practices remains ambiguous, ambivalent, and difficult to characterize.

Taiwan and the PRC have developed relations via the creative delegation of state functions to quasi-state actors, including nominally civil agencies such as Taiwan’s Straits

Exchange Foundation (SEF) and the PRC’s Association for Relations Across the Taiwan Strait

(ARATS). These agencies have been empowered by their respective state administrative backers to sign agreements akin to international treaties while appearing to sidestep the inference that such treaties make manifest Taiwan’s independent sovereign status. At the national scale, this exceptional quasi-international situation has produced something that appears doubly exceptional within Taiwan’s administration: the delegation of a basic function of the national immigration agency—inspection of travel documents of citizens from the PRC, a de facto distinct and separate state with irredentist territorial claims— to a Taiwanese trade organization

64 with extensive informal ties to KMT and CCP state and industry actors (Interview, 20 January

2015).

The outline of the chapter is as follows: While not meant to be an exhaustive history, it begins with a brief and necessary chronological review of Taiwan’s political transformation from a Chinese-claimed dynastic territory to a Japanese colony to the putative base of the Republic of

China in exile, to its current manifestation as a de facto, if not de jure, independent democratic nation-state that maintains a politically tense but economically promiscuous relationship with

China. I will then provide a history of cross-Strait tourism, with particular emphasis on tourism from the PRC to Taiwan, including a discussion of the controversy it has sparked within

Taiwanese society. I will discuss tourism’s past political instrumentality for the PRC and ROC, particularly in the reconfiguration of regional ethno-territorial formations and the articulation of hegemonic cultural authority, before treating Taiwan in comparative context with Hong Kong and Macau, two territories ruled by the PRC under a “one country, two systems” scheme (and territories frequently grouped together in official PRC discourse). The final section ties these theoretical and historical threads together to frame the ethnographies of the later chapters.

3.1 Taiwan: From frontier to colony to contested nation-state

The main island of Taiwan sits about 100 miles from China’s southeastern . Covering roughly the same land area as the , Taiwan also includes several outlying islands or island groups including , Green Island, Lanyu, , and Jinmen

(Quemoy). This archipelago has been subject to waves of migration and colonization from

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Austronesian and Sinitic language-speakers, as well as Europeans, including the Dutch and

English. Between the 17th and early 20th century, colonized largely by settlers from Fujian and under loose and incomplete administration of the Manchu Qing Empire, Taiwan’s west coast was a site of exile for troublemaking scholar-officials, an exotic and barbaric travel destination (Teng

2004) that was imagined rather differently than the now “sacred territory” (Moody 2007, 27) claimed by the PRC. The central mountains and east coast were represented by Qing scholars in

China as wild sites of savages, “quite literally ‘off the map’” (Jacobs 2005, 17).

Given the Qing’s weak and incomplete control over Taiwan (Chen and Reisman 1972;

Shepherd 1993), it seems both more faithful to the historical record and theoretically productive to treat Taiwan as a site of “hybrid colonialisms managed by statist organizations that relied on a frontier that shifted over time” (Eskildsen 2005, 285), rather than a contiguous region administered continuously and coherently as a part of China since the Qing claim of annexation.

This argument implies that, contra KMT textbooks, the colonization of Taiwan didn’t end with the expulsion of the 17th century Dutch colonizers, but instead its management passed to a colonial Chinese statist organization, the Qing administration. Meanwhile, the frontier continued shifting as the arrival of immigrants from Fujian pushed indigenous (Austronesian-speaking) people farther into the mountains, and the Qing administration asserted shifting and uneven control over the expanding region.

This treatment, borrowing from (post)colonial theory, is supported directly and indirectly by a number of scholars who have suggested that not only European powers, but other contemporary imperial formations including the Qing functioned as colonizing or conquest empires (Perdue 1998; Hostetler 2001; Crossley 2000). Such a perspective helps to broaden

Said’s critique of “Orientalism” (1979), raising the possibility that similar colonial logics of

66 exoticization and exploitation were prevalent in areas that have only recently been subjected to postcolonial critique (also see X. Chen 2002). Teng’s profound study (2004) of Qing “colonial travel writing” about Taiwan supports this view, suggesting that Taiwan should be treated as a site of colonization even (or rather, especially) by Chinese powers, despite (or rather, precisely because of) their historical claims to territorial sovereignty and cultural hegemony. This is relevant to the present study because both the current ROC and PRC claims to Taiwan rest on their assumed inheritance of late Qing territorial holdings.

In the late 19th century, shortly after Taiwan was re-zoned as a province of imperial

China in 1887, Qing authorities ceded Taiwan to Japan in perpetuity in the Treaty of

Shimonoseki in 1895 as part of the settlement of the Sino-Japanese War. In protest, a Republic of

Taiwan (Taiwan Minzhuguo, 台灣民主國) was declared by local elites, who even raised a flag of their own design, but it was quickly put down by the Japanese occupying forces. The Japanese launched ambitious development initiatives in Taiwan, including new transportation and education infrastructure, technological upgrades, and meticulous urban planning, which treated the thorough colonization of Taiwan as part of Japan’s own drive towards modernization and international parity with European colonial powers (Chu and 2001).

Meanwhile, in mainland China, the collapsed and was replaced by the

Republic of China (ROC), established in 1911 by Sun Yat-sen, the founder of the Chinese

Nationalist Party (, or KMT). Sun Yat-sen was eventually succeeded by Chiang Kai-

Shek, who presided over a famously corrupt administration that was at war with both imperial

Japan and the Red Army of the Chinese Communist Party, led by . In 1945 in

Taiwan, following Japan’s World War II defeat, the US military presided over the departure of

67 the Japanese colonial state and the inflow of KMT forces. The KMT claimed to restore (guangfu,

光復) Taiwan to Chinese rule by bringing it under the flag of the ROC.

Early KMT rule over Taiwan was characterized by mismanagement and brutality, culminating in an island-wide revolt in 1947 later known as the 228 incident (for February 28, the beginning of the revolt). A subsequent bloody crackdown, known as the “”

(baise kongbu, 白色恐怖) in resulted in the deaths of thousands of people and the suppression or eradication of local elites, and animosity between the so-called Taiwanese (benshengren, 本省

人) and newer Mainlanders (waishengren, 外省人) (Makeham and Hsiau 2005). Martial law was declared and not officially lifted until 1987. Some Taiwanese, nostalgic for the relatively efficient rule of the Japan, felt that one colonial administration had been traded for another, and many preferred the former (Kerr 1965). As I note in later chapters, while this violent history still very much animates contemporary Taiwanese politics, it has been largely been occluded in the practice of contemporary cross-Strait tourism.

Following the KMT’s final defeat by the CCP and the establishment of the People’s

Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, most ROC and KMT officials and soldiers retreated to Taiwan and expected only a brief stay before militarily retaking the mainland with US support. They amended and applied the ROC constitution, developed for all of China, to the administration of

Taiwan. Driven by the anti-communist agenda of Western powers during the Cold War, the

“Republic of China” was widely recognized internationally as the legitimate government of

China in exile, and, incredibly, occupied China’s seats in the United Nations General Assembly and Security Council until 1971.

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KMT rule transformed Taiwan. Geopolitically, Taiwan was administered as a province of

China with its own provincial administration, and hosted a National Assembly of pensioned officials who claimed to represent their home in China. Political society was stratified between the Taiwanese and the Mainlanders, with party, military, police, and educational positions reserved for the latter. The KMT implemented a “” campaign to inculcate

Chinese values into the Taiwanese, whom the KMT claimed to liberate from Japanese colonial exploitation. The Hoklo (southern Fujianese) language of most Taiwanese was forcibly suppressed in favor of Mandarin, the official language of the ROC. Textbooks emphasized

Chinese history and gave little or no attention to Taiwan. Any advocacy for Taiwanese independence, or even mention of a historically distinct Taiwanese identity was strictly prohibited.

Chiang Kai-shek was succeeded as president by his son Chiang Ching-Kuo. Facing grassroots protest and insecure about the ROC’s international standing, Chiang gradually relaxed authoritarian institutions, incorporated more Taiwan-born members into the KMT, and implemented democratic reforms. Chiang was succeeded by Taiwan-born Lee Teng-hui. Chiang and Lee’s reforms, forced or pushed along by popular protest, ultimately led to the lifting of martial law in 1987 and to rapid democratization including Taiwan’s first open and transparent presidential election in 1992, in which Lee was easily elected in a contest against the Democratic

Progressive Party (DPP), which had grown out of a democracy movement that had originally been outlawed (Rigger 1999) and initially had a pro-independence plank in its 1991 party charter

(Clark 2008). This election led some to acclaim Taiwan as “the first Chinese democracy” (Chao and Myers 1994), although Taiwan’s “Chineseness” is contested and not to be taken for granted.

In 1991, Lee’s government proclaimed an end to the civil war with the CCP and relaxed its

69 claims to sovereignty over China. This move indicated a profound shift in the ROC’s program of state territorialization. For the first time, the ROC no longer actively pursued sovereignty over de facto PRC territory.

Lee garnered widespread electoral support by promoting the idea of the “new

Taiwanese”, a new national category that encompassed both Taiwanese and Mainlanders, many of whom who had by now spent most of their lives in Taiwan, where their children were also born and raised. This new identity downplayed historical animosity between Taiwanese and

Mainlanders. Lee also accelerated the Chiang Ching-Kuo-initiated drive to incorporate more

Taiwanese into the KMT. Accentuating the “new Taiwanese” identity was the vast sociocultural gulf between Taiwan and China, which had embarked on a very different socioeconomic path.

Crucially, democracy was presented by Lee as a key component of the new Taiwanese identity, as opposed to the authoritarianism of the PRC (S. H. Tsai 2005). These discourses of difference was deepened by the writings of Taiwanese visitors to China, many of them from Mainlander families. Instead of a sense of warm homecoming and familial connection, these influential writers spoke of the alienation and surprise they felt at the cultural and inter-personal gaps during their ostensible visits “home” (Wang 2000)

In 2000, Vice-President of the KMT lost a three-way presidential race to Chen

Shui-bian, the DPP standard-bearer and former . This marked the first time the

KMT would not rule Taiwan since 1945 (although the KMT retained the legislature). As part of his election campaign, Chen had agreed to “five no’s”, including no declaration of independence, no change to the ROC’s official name, and no inclusion of Lee Teng-Hui’s “special state-to-state relations” terminology in the ROC constitution. Despite this and a conciliatory inauguration

70 speech, the PRC, wary of Chen’s affiliation with a formerly formally pro-independence party, reacted by freezing communications with the ROC.

Under Chen, the DPP instituted a number of “Taiwanization” (bentuhua, 本土化) initiatives, including increased Fujianese Hoklo-language (so-called “mother tongue”, for the

“Taiwanese” majority) education, and produced new maps for pedagogical purposes that symbolically placed Taiwan closer to other Pacific nations than to China (Callahan 2009).

Moreover, despite Chen’s prior “five no’s promise”, in the face of a challenging 2004 election campaign, which he won by a very small margin, Chen’s administration pursued assertive cross-

Strait policies, including the failed attempt to require a national referendum on formal independence (Bedford and Hwang 2006).

The KMT returned to the presidential office with the 2008 election of Ma Ying-Jeou, who had earlier beat Chen Shui-bian in the 2000 mayor’s race. Ma, the Hong Kong-born son of a

KMT leader, held a Harvard law degree and had served as Chiang Ching-Kuo’s secretary in the

1970s. He promised and delivered tighter political and economic cooperation with the PRC, including the opening of cross-Strait flights and tourism, discussed in detail below. His signature legislative achievement was the signing of the Economic Cooperation Framework Agreement, a free trade treaty in all but name: Due to the sovereignty dispute, it could not be treated as a state- to-state treaty, so the negotiators creatively adopted terminology borrowed from a pact signed between the PRC and the ASEAN nations (Hsieh 2011). Despite unrealized promises that these policies would produce six percent year-on-year economic growth, he won a tight re-election race in 2012, and soon attempted to pass ECFA-related economic policies, including a services trade agreement which would have further liberalized the tourism sector. These efforts met

71 substantial domestic opposition, most spectacularly during the Sunflower Movement in 2014, which is discussed in detail in Chapter 7.

The history related above should shed some light on Taiwan’s demographic composition, so vital to understanding Taiwan’s political geography, as well as the political economy of its tourism sector. According to Taiwan’s Ministry of the Interior, approximately 500,000, or roughly 2% of Taiwan’s present-day population is composed of Austronesian peoples

(yuanzhumin, 原住民; “indigenous,” “aboriginal,” or literally “original residents”), whose ancestors arrived far earlier than subsequent waves of immigrants. The ethnic composition of the remainder of the population is typically described as split between the majority “Taiwanese”

(benshengren, 本省人, literally “people from this province”) and “Mainlanders” (waishengren,

外省人, literally “people from outside the province”). The “Taiwanese” are composed primarily of the descendants of pre-20th century south Fujianese (minnan, 閩南 or Hoklo) settlers, and secondarily by the Hakka (kejiaren, 客家人) who despite originally speaking a different mother tongue are often treated as benshengren in political analysis due to their pre-20th century arrival

(see S.-C. Shen and Wu 2008 for one example). The “Mainlanders” consist of the descendants of more recent arrivals from throughout China who came with the KMT following their military defeat in the 1940s.

Of course, the citation and use of any of these terms presupposes not only their existence but also constitutes a kind of political practice of claim-making and legitimization (Harrison

2006). It must be emphasized that these categories are increasingly porous and decreasingly salient due to large-scale sociopolitical change and the passing of the last generation of Taiwan- residing Mainlanders that was actually born in China. Nonetheless, this demographic mix has

72 influenced and continues to influence Taiwan’s politics and national imagination vis-a-vis China, with self-identified “Taiwanese” generally supporting independence, and “Mainlanders” evincing relatively more support for unification with China, identification as “Chinese”, and support for the KMT (National Chengchi University Election Study Center 2015). Therefore, rather than reifying these differences, I distinguish in this dissertation between “Taiwanese” and

“Mainlanders” only to clarify a common domestic ethno-political division within Taiwan, and one that is crucial for understanding Taiwan’s modern political history. This distinction is also crucial for understanding the political economy of its tourism industry, the leadership of which, according to my interview data, is dominated by self-identified “Mainlanders”. In the absence of this specific distinction between “Mainlander” and “Taiwanese”, my general use of the word

“Taiwanese” will encompass “Mainlanders” and members of any other group that identifies as

Taiwanese or carries the passport of the ROC, regardless of ethnic affiliation, in distinction to

PRC nationals.

3.2 The development of cross-Strait tourism

All travel from Taiwan to the PRC was strictly prohibited from 1949 until 1987, although many Taiwanese traveled to China via a third country or territory (typically, Hong Kong or

Macau) and did not get their passports stamped. In 1987, Taiwan rescinded the ban and gave special travel permission to certain groups, particularly veterans or others who had been separated from their families in China due to the KMT’s retreat to Taiwan. In 1988, 473,000

Taiwanese visited the PRC. As restrictions on leisure and other forms of travel were gradually

73 loosened, the number of annual tourist visits rose to 1.2 million by 1992, and 3.7 million in 2004

(Guo et al. 2006).

Travel from the PRC to Taiwan was permitted by the ROC in 1988, but only for the visitation of sick relatives or attendance at funerals. Gradually, visits for other purposes were permitted, including media projects, attendance at special cultural events, and business. The years from 1988 and 2004 saw a total of roughly 858,900 PRC visitors to Taiwan, not an inconsiderable amount, but still a fraction of the flow from Taiwan to China (Guo et al. 2006).

Without direct air or sea links, all such travel had to pass through Hong Kong, Macau, or another transit point.

In 1990, as military hostilities thawed and the profit potential for cross-Strait investment became increasingly evident, two “civil” agencies were set up in Taiwan and the PRC to facilitate communication and negotiations: the Taipei-based Strait Exchange Foundation (SEF), and the Beijing-based Association for Relations Across the Taiwan Strait (ARATS) (Chao

2003). Such an unusual arrangement was necessitated by the legal and political systems on both sides. With the ROC constitution still claiming sovereignty over PRC territory and vice versa, neither state would recognize the legitimacy of an official agency of its counterpart. However, these agencies are clearly tied to the state apparatus—the head of the SEF is appointed by the

ROC president, and the agency itself is funded and directed largely via the ROC’s Mainland

Affairs Council (MAC), which is under the jurisdiction of the Executive Yuan (Branch). In the

PRC, ARATS is managed by the state Taiwan Affairs Office, which is under the State Council.

In 1999, when then-ROC President Lee Teng-hui famously suggested that the PRC and

Taiwan had “special state-to-state relations,” implying some kind of support for Taiwan independence, the PRC protested by suspending all talks between SEF and ARATS. A year later,

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Chen Shui-bian of the more explicitly independence-leaning opposition DPP was elected

President, which marked the first time that the ROC in Taiwan had not been under KMT rule.

The PRC further hardened its stance and refused any negotiations with SEF or any official ROC agencies while the DPP controlled the presidency.

Despite this, following many rounds of negotiations, charter flights to bring PRC-based

Taiwanese businesspeople home for the Lunar New Year holidays began in 2003, but were canceled the following year amid Taiwanese election-year controversy. In 2006, an agreement was reached between China's General Administration of Civil Aviation and Taiwan’s MAC to permit direct charter passenger flights during other major holidays, as well as cargo and humanitarian flights that could occur throughout the year, with individual approval. New York

Times writer Keith Bradsher portrayed the agreement as a ploy by President Chen, who was facing impeachment proceedings based on corruption charges, to boost his sagging approval ratings (2006). With MAC polls showing 75 percent support for expanded charter flights, this was not an unpopular move. Yet an even higher percentage of respondents, 85 percent, supported maintenance of the de facto independent “status quo” of Taiwanese de facto sovereignty (Huang

2006), suggesting that the Taiwanese public wished to improve cross-Strait transportation infrastructure without sacrificing its claimed rights to autonomy and self-determination.

The Chen administration still attempted to reform mobility regulations through other channels. Cognizant of the economic opportunities offered by cross-Strait tourism, the administration began planning to receive Chinese leisure tourists as early as 2001 (Tsai 2006b).

Responding to the requests of PRC-based Taiwanese businesspeople for more convenient transportation, the Chen cabinet prepared a report advocating for direct regular flights in 2003, according to its (MAC) Chairman Joseph Wu (Asia Pulse/CNA 2005).

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Holding up tourism promotion was the sovereignty dispute, a matter of names—specifically the

PRC’s unwillingness to list Taiwan as a foreign country, and the Chen administration’s unwillingness to refer to Taiwan as a province. In 2006, MAC vice-Chairman David Huang said,

“Taiwan is not listed as a travel destination. There is currently no legal basis for Chinese tourists to apply to visit Taiwan… When we negotiate this... we will continue to express our stance that the Republic of China is a sovereign, independent country and that the People's Republic of

China is a separate political entity" (Rickards 2006). In the meantime, limited sight-seeing had in fact been permitted in some form by China (China Post 2005), but continued diplomatic disagreements kept the numbers down.

The Chen administration wanted the negotiations to proceed via “official government” channels without preconditions, but the PRC leadership was unwilling to speak with the Chen administration, which it repeatedly criticized as pro-independence. The PRC insisted on holding the talks via “private” channels and organizations, so as not to lend legitimacy to the Chen administration, or help it “earn any points”, in the words of Johnson Tseng, the founding

Director-General of the Travel Agent Association of the ROC, and a participant in these talks

(Interview, 30 January 2015). One impasse was resolved in 2006 by the PRC’s founding of the

Cross-Strait Tourism Association and Taiwan’s founding of the Taiwan Strait Travel and

Tourism Association, echoing the structure of SEF/ARATS. Although private in name, the negotiations between these two entities were still “dominated” by state actors (Tsai 2006b) with ties to industry. The names of the organizations had been a major point of contention, with China initially refusing to deal with any organization with the name, “Republic of China”. Even inclusion of the name “Taiwan” was initially rejected (Tsai 2006a).

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While the DPP was shut out of negotiations, the KMT initiated direct contact with the

CCP in anticipation of returning to power after future elections. Many of their agreements were passed into law quickly after President Ma Ying-Jeou’s 2008 election. Beckershoff provocatively argues that the KMT-CCP Forum, a series of party-to-party meetings organized in Taiwan by former vice-president and honorary KMT chairman Lien Chan’s National Progress Foundation, has been at least as influential in formulating policy as official state institutions, or even the SEF-

ARATS channels, and that this transnational party-to-party platform has “severely distorted

Taiwan’s democracy” (2014, 239). These forums have included not only politicians, but also leaders of industry, including tourism. Yao Ta-kuang, Johnson Tseng’s successor at the Travel

Agent Association of the ROC, confirmed that the legal substance of the agreements eventually implemented by the KMT differed immaterially from earlier DPP administration-drafted versions, but that these party-to-party channels were necessary to “build trust” (Interview, 28

January 2015).

In July 2008, a few months after Ma’s inauguration, Taiwan received the first entry of a

Chinese tour group on a direct flight, touted by the administration as a major breakthrough.

Regularly-scheduled, commercial cross-Strait flights finally began in August 2009, following yet more rounds of talks. Chinese tourist numbers were initially kept down by China’s rigorous screening process, at least according to the MAC. Instead of the maximum of 3,000 tourists per day permitted by Taiwan, there was only a daily average of several hundred. Prospective tourists were, among other things, required by PRC authorities to prove employment, pay a bond of

50,000 yuan (over US$6000 in 2008), and submit to other paperwork and screening checks

(Reuters 2008). All tourists were required to join group tours. Such PRC rules and regulations were not particularly different for Taiwan than for some other approved destinations (Arlt 2006).

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Soon enough, however, these developments quickly yielded considerable changes to Taiwan’s tourism industry. After the door opened in 2008, mainland Chinese arrivals rose rapidly to become Taiwan’s top inbound market within one year, and over 3 million tourists were arriving annually by 2014.

Regular cross-Strait flights finally began in August 2009, following yet more rounds of talks, with flights from destinations in China including Beijing, Shanghai, , and , to Taipei’s Songshan Airport, Taoyuan International Airport, and Airport in Taiwan.

Average occupancy was a low 62.7% in the first months (Shan 2009). There were 972,123 total

PRC arrivals for 2009, of whom nearly 540,000 listed “Pleasure” as their primary purpose. Total numbers of PRC arrivals were just 28,000 shy of Japan, still number one (Republic of China

Ministry of Transportation and Communications Tourism Bureau 2010).

PRC tourist numbers spiked sharply in 2010, seeing the PRC pulling solidly ahead of

Japan to become the number one sending country to Taiwan, and earning PRC tourists recognition as the “bread and butter of Taiwan’s tourism industry” from Taipei-based newspaper on January 4, 2011. Total numbers of PRC arrivals in 2010 were over 1.6 million, with over 1.2 million listing “Pleasure” as their primary purpose. Tourist numbers continued their rise in 2011, with a total of nearly 1.8 million PRC arrivals, of whom nearly 1.3 million listed “Pleasure” as their primary purpose. The overall numbers and stated purpose of visitor arrivals from “Mainland China” is summarized in Table 1, starting in 2008, the first year for which such statistics are available. It should be noted that due to ROC Tourism

Bureau report formatting, all figures that include “visitor purpose” arriving from “Mainland

China” also include non-PRC nationals as well, but that these account for under 2% of the total number of arrivals. As for the number of PRC nationals arriving from non-PRC airports, this is

78 simply uncountable—a peculiar political quirk of ROC record-keeping designates all people who are both “Chinese” and non-ROC citizens as “Overseas Chinese” (huaqiao, 華僑), a term which can include non-PRC citizens who apply as “Overseas Chinese” for special visas or travel permits. Also, the “Exhibition” and “Medical Treatment” categories were not tabulated until

2012.

Year Total Business Pleasure Visit Conference Study Exhibition Medical Unstated

Relatives Treatment or Other

2008 329,204 36,621 94,765 57,047 13,358 1,216 126,197

2009 972,123 69,697 539,106 71,341 22,964 3,975 265,040

2010 1,630,735 89,544 1,228,086 104,038 32,843 8,259 167,965

2011 1,784,185 125,481 1,290,933 119,074 22,564 9,060 217,073

2012 2,586,428 49,185 2,019,757 58,052 3,707 3,366 3,392 55,740 393,229

2013 2,874,702 46,560 2,263,635 59,148 2,824 6,644 3,292 95,778 396,821

2014 3,987,152 20,470 3,393,346 63,636 797 11,906 135 55,534 441,328

2015 4,184,102 16,953 3,437,425 69,326 995 19,064 102 60,504 579,733

Table 1: Visitor arrivals by purpose from Mainland China (Source: Taiwan Tourism Bureau Website)

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Another major milestone was Taiwan’s reception of independent, non-group tourists, who were first allowed to arrive from Shanghai in June 2011. A total of 500 per day was permitted from Beijing, Shanghai, and Xiamen (Kang and Chen 2011). The quota was doubled to 1,000 less than a year later, in April 2012, with several more sending cities permitted (AFP

2012).

The arrival of PRC tourists was immediately met with controversy in Taiwan. While some politicians and former Chen administration officials have portrayed PRC tourists as security threats (for example, see Cole 2010; V. Y. Chao 2011), polls and blog reports also indicated something of a Taiwanese public backlash against the more mundane behavior of PRC tourists. A 2009 government poll indicated that only 24.9% of respondents had a “good impression” of PRC tourists, with 33% holding a “bad impression”, and the rest neutral or having no opinion (Republic of China Executive Yuan Research Development and Evaluation

Commission 2009). A number of critical blog entries have been posted in Taiwan with photos of

PRC tourists washing their feet in public restrooms, urinating in public, and otherwise behaving in ways deemed inappropriate by commenters. Such blogs have been common in Hong Kong for years, and have even been reposted in the PRC.

While public opinion polls in Taiwan have sometimes reflected support for PRC tourist arrivals (Huang 2006), the rapid developments have not been received uniformly positively, even by a Taiwanese travel industry that had initially been eager to receive new business. Lower arrival numbers than expected in early 2009, even as Taiwanese tourist outflow to the PRC rose, as well as reports of poor behavior by Chinese tourists (Lee and Lin 2009), provided fodder for

DPP politicians who accused President Ma and the KMT of pursuing a cross-Strait policy that benefited China more than Taiwan (Hsu 2009), despite the fact that much of the policy had in

80 fact been initially planned by the DPP. Numbers rose in early 2009, with an average of 3,000 tourists a day in April, only to plummet again a few months later, reportedly due to Chinese tourist concerns about the H1N1 influenza outbreak in Taiwan, producing a “sense of shock” in the previously optimistic Taiwanese travel industry ( 2009).

Even with tourist numbers soaring in 2010 and 2011, a number of tour operators in

Taiwan said that they were actually losing money. According to a report in the

(AP), a number of businesspeople complained of late payments from Chinese industry partners; the total delinquent amount was claimed to be as high as US$169.5 million, which meant late payments for local tour guides and other industry employees. Of the 300 operators licensed by the Taiwan government to receive PRC tourists, 13 Hong Kong-based operators took 50% of the revenues. Also, Taiwanese operators were said they were forced by their partners in China, who paid as low as US$20 a day per tourist, to cut costs by offering sub-standard accommodations and service, and gouge customers on shopping to stores with high commissions.

"Chinese tourists are getting up earlier than roosters, eating worse than pigs, and are totally exhausted from spending most of their days on intercity buses," said an official at the Taiwan

International Tour Manager Development Association. (Associated Press 2011). The same AP report also took issue with the Ma administration’s claim that PRC tourists brought US$2 billion in spending to the island, pointing out that the figure was based on airport surveys of 1,896 tourists, rather than on data received from hotels, shopping malls, or other industry actors. The

AP report, based on an analysis of tour prices, suggests that the government’s number may have been exaggerated by as much as US$700 million.

A figure of US$224 per-day spending by PRC tourists was claimed by the Taiwan

Tourism Bureau. This number came from a contracted research team and was based on a

81 collection of self-reported data from departing PRC tourists at the Taoyuan International, Taipei

Songshan, and International airports (Lee 2014). These figures have not been cross- checked against tax or other revenues, according to Tourism Bureau official, Lin Yan-mei

(Interview, 29 March 2014). There is no other publicly available data to support or substantiate these Tourism Bureau claims, or compute a more reliable estimate, and Bureau officials were unable or unwilling to provide me with any additional data.

The AP report’s suspicion about inflated claims of tourism revenues, and the financial distress of many travel agents, were substantiated by my interviews with several travel agency owners as well as by Johnson Tseng, the former head of the Travel Agent Association of the

ROC. A further problem faced by Taiwanese travel agents and tour operators has been the impossibility of debt collection from PRC agents, who are not required by law to pay in advance for the services of Taiwanese ground handlers. This has led to the bankruptcy of several travel agents in Taiwan, especially those without deeper informal and personal ties to PRC partners, according to a Mr. Yu from Cola Travel, which specializes in cross-Strait travel (Interview, 24

April 2014). The surviving Taiwanese companies have grown due to diminished and widely rumored but unverifiable inflows of PRC investment capital. This asymmetry and tendency towards cartelization was described by Johnson Tseng as one of the biggest failings of cross-Strait tourism policy, and one that he claimed to have warned the Ma administration about, but to have fallen on deaf ears, as the Ma administration was impatient to open up cross-Strait tourism as quickly as possible to score political points in both Taiwan and vis a vis the PRC

(Interview, 30 January 2015).

A general alliance between the tourism industry and the KMT and affiliated political forces was observed by Johnson Tseng, who organized and hosted a large, 150 table fundraiser

82 for failed 2014 Taipei KMT mayoral candidate, , the son of Lien Chan. Tseng himself identifies as a Mainlander and is a member of the People’s First Party (PFP), a Mainlander- dominant KMT spin-off party, and claimed that most of his fellow industry leaders were either

KMT or PFP. The other industry leaders available for interview, including Tseng’s successor

Yao Ta-kuang, Wu Hung-yi and Michael Chao of the Tourist Guide Association of the ROC, and four major agency CEOs were also Mainlander and pro-KMT or PFP. This is not a sufficiently large sample to demonstrate the absolute veracity of his claim, but it is not insignificant. As put by tour guide Michael Chao, “Being Mainlander probably helps us business-wise… We know more about their [mainland Chinese] culture and business practices”

(Interview, 6 February 2014).

3.3 Tourism as diplomatic weapon and technology of PRC state power

This section situates the above account in a wider regional and political context. Well before the beginning of cross-Strait flights, tourism has long been a battleground of the PRC and

ROC’s contest for international recognition and support, particularly from overseas Chinese.

During the , when the PRC’s borders were largely closed and people with ties to overseas Chinese experienced persecution, the ROC enticed visitors to their version of

“Free China”. During that period, the sympathies and capital of “most overseas Chinese communities” shifted towards the ROC and away from the PRC (Arlt 2006, 33). The ROC used this position to shore up international diplomatic support, as well as to finance infrastructure projects.

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After the PRC re-opened its borders in 1978, overseas Chinese were newly targeted as sources of capital and international support. This campaign was successful—as inbound tourism and foreign direct investment (FDI) increased, overseas Chinese “sympathies started to move from Taibei [Taipei] to Beijing” (Arlt 2006, 30). Overseas Chinese were seen by the Deng-era

PRC regime as key to its modernization and development campaign. The purpose was not just to profit from foreign inflows (a major goal of inbound non-Chinese tourism), but also to strengthen links with overseas Chinese sources of investment capital and to use transnational

Chinese cultural affinity to politically strengthen the regime in Beijing. The results, both in terms of tourist numbers as well as FDI were remarkable. All PRC inbound tourist numbers went up following 1978, but overseas Chinese arrivals dwarfed others—between 1978 and 1985, foreign arrivals grew six-fold from 230,000 to 1.37 million, while overseas Chinese arrivals grew ten- fold from 1.58 million to 16.48 million. That is to say that there were nearly 15 times as many overseas Chinese visitors as foreign visitors in 1985. Overseas Chinese (or “compatriots”) became the major source for FDI in the PRC, with 76 percent coming from Hong Kong and

Macau between 1978 and 1993, and 9 percent from Taiwan (Fan 1997, 148, quoted in Arlt 2006,

33). Simultaneously, PRC tourism policy also called for outcompeting the ROC in the game of international recognition and support, “especially by parading the economic success of China vis-a-vis Taiwan” to overseas Chinese visitors (Arlt 2006, 37).

The situation can be summarized as follows:

…by claiming the Chinese identity of all ethnic Chinese and their ‘natural’ affiliation towards the People’s Republic, the government in Beijing has quite successfully used a transnationalistic approach (Nyíri and Breidenbach 2005) to utilize the Chinese living in Hong Kong, Macao, other countries and even Taiwan to support the modernization of China economically and the status of China politically. This happened within the framework of the long-term goals of

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regaining control over Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan, winning the support of overseas communities in competition to the Taibei [Taipei] government and turning drain of Chinese students not returning, but staying outside of China, into an advantage. Tourism has been a major tool in achieving these goals (Arlt 2006, 34).

Such politically-motivated tourism policies and practices have included: the permitting of visa-free entry for overseas Chinese, the official organization of “visiting relatives” tours to

Hong Kong and Macau prior to those territories’ integration to the PRC, regulations that encouraged outbound travel to countries with large overseas Chinese communities, including

Thailand, , , and the Philippines, and the operation of summer camps within the PRC that targeted overseas Chinese youth participants. All of these tourism policies have served to strengthen ties between overseas Chinese and the PRC regime. Inasmuch as they have established PRC regional hegemony, they have weakened the ROC’s overseas affiliations, destabilizing Taiwan’s political position even in a “Chinese axis” or “Greater China” in which it is undeniably a major economic player. This view of China’s tourism policy supports Arlt’s general argument that “the political needs of those who wield power” are one of the “main forces shaping the development of tourism in general and outbound tourism in particular…” (3).

The PRC’s targeting of overseas Chinese was prefigured by its tourism industry’s two- tiered structure, as well as state record-keeping practice. Two of the major state tourism companies, China Travel Service (CTS) and China International Travel Service (CITS), had been set up earlier to explicitly serve different markets, overseas Chinese and foreigners, respectively.

Given that these were state enterprises, a distinction between overseas Chinese and other tourists was thus made not just in industry strategy or operations but materialized in the cultural distinctions of state institutional practice. PRC statistics for inbound tourism carefully distinguish

85 between foreigners (waiguoren, 外國人), “compatriots” (tongbao, 同胞, including Taiwanese), and overseas Chinese (huaqiao, 華僑) (Arlt 2006). Likewise, ROC statistics distinguish between foreigners and overseas Chinese (huaqiao, 華僑, including mainland Chinese), but subtly different from the PRC’s records, they do not include a compatriot category.

China’s outbound tourism has, since 1995, been regulated by a system that confers

Approved Destination Status (ADS) to countries that have signed bilateral agreements with

China. Facing pressure from an increasingly mobile and wealthy population, the central government instituted this system to bring tourism under its control. Three agencies are involved in its administration and international negotiation: The Ministries of Foreign Affairs and Public

Security, and the China National Tourism Administration. The initial main purpose of the ADS was to prevent Chinese nationals from bringing too much abroad (Arlt 2006). At that time, Chinese travelers were already permitted to go to , Singapore, Malaysia and the Philippines as part of a “Visit Friends and Relatives” program. Those countries soon received

ADS status, followed by South Korea in 1998 and and in 1999. Since then, more than 100 countries have signed ADS agreements with China.

ADS status allows outbound group tourists to apply for visas through travel agencies, saving them a trip to the consulate. It also encourages greater marketing of group tours.

Therefore, it is a highly desirable designation for countries that are eager to boost inbound tourism revenue. As ADS rules stipulate that the receiving country should “have good political relationships with China”, it is used as a political tool to encourage PRC-friendly attitudes and policies. For example, it took Canada over 18 ministerial visits to the PRC and a change to more pro-China rhetoric and policy-positions before it earned ADS in 2009. This so-called “gift” is expected to bring over US$100 million in additional annual tourist revenues (Lo 2011).

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Complementing these political and economic tactics, the cultural authority exerted via the construction and management of tourism sites is an additional dimension of PRC state practice.

Nyíri has argued in his book, Scenic Spots, based on content analysis of tourism promotional brochures, historical review of Chinese literati travel discourse, and ethnographies of Chinese domestic tourism practices, that the PRC “sponsors a discursive regime in which scenic spots and their state-endorsed hierarchy are tools of patriotic education and modernization, and in which the state has the ultimate authority to determine the meaning of the landscape” (2006, 75).

Nyíri traces the organizational conditions that allow this to happen, including the deep institutional and personal overlaps between state regulatory agencies, tour operators, and site developers and management. He likewise discusses the use of scenic spots as symbols of state authority, as components of the late socialist nation-building project, and borrowing from Oakes

(1998), the use of ethnic minority sites to present China as a modern and territorially bounded nation. Nyíri’s book ends with a brief examination of outbound Chinese tourism to Europe, as well as the PRC’s use of foreign scenic sites to articulate its authority. By way of example, he describes how the Eiffel Tower was turned red during an official state visit of President Hu

Jintao. Nyíri concludes, “One thing is certain: the Chinese state, as long as it exists in its current form, will attempt to assert its cultural authority over foreign landscapes” (108).

The case of Taiwan, where the foreign/domestic polarity is more blurry, presents a complex and contentious interplay of state and market forces in the struggle over the operation and representation of tourist sites, particularly those of symbolic political significance. This was observed early on in the case of the Jiang (Chiang) Cultural Park in Taoyuan, a county in northern Taiwan. In 2005, in the midst of a national anti-Chiang Kai-Shek campaign led by the then-ruling DPP, the KMT-led Taoyuan county government, anticipating a future influx of PRC

87 tourists, began planning a Chiang Kai-shek themed-park around a complex of Chiang-related heritage buildings. Chiang Kai-shek was transformed from a dictator into a cool or even cute figure, his image in a souvenir postcard literally transforming from the stern “Generalissimo” into “Mickey Chiang”, the late dictator wearing a Mickey Mouse hat. Then-Taoyuan County

Magistrate (and losing 2016 KMT chair and presidential candidate) described Chiang as an “essence” of modern Chinese history, thereby placing Taoyuan in a Chinese “cultural trajectory” (Woo 2011). Chiang is by no means beloved in China, but he remains an object of great historical interest. Even if he was an enemy of the Chinese Communist Party, he was at least a Chinese nationalist, and thus vastly preferable to the contemporary PRC than later

Taiwanese leaders, including Lee Teng-hui and Chen Shui-bian. With this presentation of

Chiang, we can observe a local government within Taiwan, motivated by potential revenues from PRC tourists, attempting to construct a Chinese scenic site within Taiwan, without any apparent direct involvement from PRC state agencies or industry actors. This recuperation and marketing of Chiang and KMT iconography and ideology will receive more substantial ethnographic treatment in Chapters Four and Five.

3.4 Hong Kong as a comparative example of the PRCs deployment of tourism and zoning technologies

While often grouped together in official and popular PRC touristic discourse, Taiwan’s legal and administrative status is distinct in both de facto and de jure terms from Hong Kong and

Macau. The latter two territories which were respectively colonies of the and

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Portugal, but were handed over to PRC rule in 1997 and 1999 and designated as “Special

Administrative Regions” (SAR) under a “one country, two systems” (OCTS) scheme. The OCTS scheme was initially designed by the PRC in the early 1980s to bring Taiwan under PRC rule, but with a high enough degree of autonomy for Taiwan to maintain its capitalist economic system. Hong Kong and Macau have been described as test-runs for this approach for Taiwan

(Cooney 1997), and the three regions are frequently grouped together in official PRC discourse.

For example, airports in the PRC distinguish between “Domestic” and “International and Hong

Kong, Macau, and Taiwan (Gang Ao Tai, 港澳台)” departure zones. Such signage was evident even before the beginning of direct cross-Strait flights. Airports in Taiwan, on the other hand, list

PRC cities, Hong Kong, and Macau as international destinations.

The “One Country, Two Systems” SAR scheme requires further elaboration as one of

China’s various “zoning technologies” (Ong 2004), and as distinct from the Special Economic

Zone (SEZ). While the practice of state demarcation of different economic zones did not originate in East Asia—European colonial powers have specified different economic zones under the same sovereign at least since the 19th century—Ong has argued that the PRC has used zoning technologies in order to allow for “variegated sovereignty” in a “Chinese axis” in a way that is qualitatively different from the economic regional formations of, for example, the European

Union or the North American free trade zone. That is to say, the PRC has established a variety of different zones to flexibly manage political and economic affairs across the vast territory over which it claims sovereignty.

The purpose of the SEZ, as formulated by and approved by the National

People’s Congress in 1980, was to experiment with market activity, economic development, and international investment within clearly demarcated zones (Yeung, Lee, and Kee 2009). These

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SEZs ultimately developed into a multifarious variety of free trade zones that in some ways resembled experiments elsewhere in the region, particularly in Taiwan and South Korea, and ultimately prefigured and produced major spillover effects for the rest of the PRC’s political economy. These zones were granted “a wide array of powers, including substantial autonomy for the local creation of business opportunities, as well as simplified administrative regulations for planning, banking, and insurance” (Ong 2004, 78). SEZ exceptions included lower business taxes, increased access to international capital (often drawn from overseas Chinese communities), and more lenient labor regulations. Migrant laborers from elsewhere in the PRC had to apply for special permits, and were not privy to the same labor protections or trade union requirements as they would have been in their home provinces. Meanwhile, the appointed leadership of SEZs, while autonomous in principle, reported directly to Beijing instead of to provincial governments.

It is worth mentioning that apart from the establishment of the SEZ scheme, urban administration rescaled and decentralized rapidly throughout China during the Deng era, leading one Chinese scholar to observe “the emergence of cities as autonomous local states” (J. Shen

2008, 12). That having been said, SEZs represent a distinctive zoning technology with different political considerations than other rescaled urban divisions, such as special municipalities like

Shanghai or . The first SEZs were located in border regions. These sites were chosen not only for reasons based on the intrinsic economic conditions of those sites, but also, Ong argues, because the “economic linkages, wealth, and capitalist experiments in SEZs also served explicit political goals by managing the eventual integration of Hong Kong, Macao [Macau], and

Taiwan with mainland China” (2004, 78). This political strategy has been more fully realized in

90 the case of Hong Kong and Macau, both of which were incorporated as Special Administrative

Regions in 1997 and 1999, respectively, if not without hiccups.

As useful as Ong’s concept of “variegated sovereignty” may be for analyzing the various zoning strategies within the uncontested borders of the PRC, such as the SAR and SEZ, and however provocative her theory may be for understanding how economic strategies coupled with cultural ties may continue reconfiguring regional political formations in east and southeast Asia,

I would like to briefly flag a serious problem in her approach. This problem is an uncritical assumption of an implicitly timeless, ahistorical Chinese ethnicity that extends beyond state borders, and with it a failure to address the complex dynamic between nation, state, and identity.

Ong refers repeatedly to the existence of overseas Chinese communities in east and southeast

Asia, and to their links with Chinese individuals and institutions within nominally Chinese polities without addressing how these Chinese subject positions are formed, maintained, or even discarded. Her argument about how Beijing’s flexible zoning strategies are producing a “Greater

China” vis a vis overseas Chinese does not address how overseas Chinese are constructed as ethnic or national subjects in a complex dance between various state policies, economic opportunities, and mobile cultural practices. Her economistic focus ignores the cultural policies, associations, and media events designed to promote Chinese identity abroad (Barabantseva

2005).

Ong’s oversight is all the more striking, given that this particular article’s implicit assumption of an ahistorical transnational Chinese subjectivity overlooks even her own past work demonstrating that overseas Chinese identities are claimed or disclaimed flexibly and pragmatically (Ong 1999), and that even within the PRC, Han Chinese identity is a dynamic category affected by state policy (Wu 1991). While Ong discusses Taiwan in detail, treating it as

91 a “breakaway territorial possession” (2004, 76), she fails to note how Taiwanese popular opinion has dramatically shifted away from Chinese identification and towards Taiwanese identification.

By 2010, more respondents identified as “Taiwanese” than they did as “Chinese” or even

“Chinese and Taiwanese”, and this general trend was already evident in the late 1990s.

This shift in Taiwanese national identity happened precisely during the period of increased economic integration between Taiwan and the PRC, an integration so deep that Ong suggests it has made “political unification of China and its breakaway parts inevitable” (2004,

76). But even if we allow that an economic “Chinese axis” can be said to be emerging, the shared cultural identification of all of its supposed subjects should not be taken for granted, especially in the context of the territorial dispute between the PRC and Taiwan, and Taiwan’s volatile internal ethnic politics. Thus, at least one branch of the “Chinese axis” may arguably be said to be coming apart culturally and politically even as it is economically coming together. My argument here, however less normative, echoes that of Chien-Min Chao, who has suggested that the

“positive effects” of economic integration have been “offset” by “political cultural gaps”, and have even opened up rifts not just between, but within the respective societies (Chao 2003). This is tantamount to a shift, split, or rupture in Taiwan’s state territorialization program not only vis a vis China, but within Taiwan’s own polity. That this process appears to have accelerated during a period of increased mobility between Taiwan and the PRC, both for business and for leisure travelers, warrants more investigation.

Ong perhaps couldn’t have foreseen the challenges of Hong Kong’s “cultural integration” into the PRC. Anson Chan, former chief secretary for administration, has observed that “the real transition is about identity and not sovereignty” (Chan 1998), and the CCP position is generally

92 represented as one that knows that it has won the territory but not the “hearts” of the people.

Tourism has further problematized this project.

In 2003, Hong Kong’s economy appeared imperiled following the outbreak of the infectious disease, SARS. Ostensibly to improve the financial outlook, China raised its caps on outbound tourists by implementing the . In just over ten years, the annual number of mainland Chinese tourist arrivals rose from 8.5 million to 40 million (Chiu, Ho, and

Osawa 2014) in a territory of just 7 million people. Their spending has been significant, but so has the corresponding rise in commodity prices. This is due not only to spending by leisure tourists, but also the rise of “parallel trading” (shui huo, 水貨, literally “water goods”), in which day-visitors cross from China in order to purchase essentials that are either cheaper due to Hong

Kong’s lower taxes, or are perceived as higher-quality due to China’s relatively lax food safety enforcement. This trade has precipitated a backlash from Hong Kong people who fear rising prices and food shortages.

Tourism from mainland China has accelerated the development of a distinct Hong Kong subjectivity defined in part by difference from China. Popular and social media long reflected widespread discontent with the behavior of Chinese tourists, which reached a boiling point with the “anti-locust” (fan huangchong, 反蝗蟲) protests in early 2014. These widely-publicized demonstrations actually drew only a few hundred activists, but reflected an incipient nativism that has been aggravated no less by widely-reported damages and social ruptures of tourism than by Beijing’s policy interventions and public statements (Garrett and Ho 2014).

The animality of the terms used to deride Chinese tourists conflates the physical with the geopolitical. “Locust” has been in common use at least since 2012, when a full-page ad, paid for

93 via crowd-sourced funds, appeared in the popular daily newspaper, Apple Daily, featuring an image of Chinese tourists as locusts flying over Lion Rock, an iconic Hong Kong site. The term is particularly directed at tourists who visit primarily to buy goods to bring back for use or sale in

China—they are said to scour the shops and leave nothing affordable for local people. Another term, “pigs” (zhu, 豬) has likewise been directed at tourists and recalls the same epithet used by

Taiwanese to insult unwelcome arrivals from China in the 1940s (Kerr 1965).

Driving much of the tension have been depictions of the supposedly uncouth and unhygienic practices of Chinese tourists. Blogs that document public urination and defecation, spitting, shoving, and other forms of behavior unacceptable in Hong Kong have proliferated rapidly. Public urination in Hong Kong is presented by area netizens not only as an annoyance, but as an act of geopolitical provocation. Perhaps the most spectacular example is the viral

YouTube video, “Locust World”, released in 2011 and since seen by over 1.4 million viewers, which includes the following lyrics, originally in :

Locust come out from nowhere, overwhelm everywhere Shouting, screaming, yelling like no one could hear Ever feel shame to yourself? Smoke like breathing in hell And your fucking son who shit right in the mall See this country? countrymen expert in stealing, cheating, deceiving, lying “I’m Chinese!” scares the piss out of everyone Locust nation named “Cina” – disgusted by the whole of East Asia Everyday trying to naturalise us with Mandarin Invading across the Hong Kong border and taking over our land – that’s your speciality Parasitic until your citizenship is recognised Big-belly locust like aliens; pregnant and not stopped by immigration… … Locust eggs hatch in hospitals – taking over beds and not paying bills We thought we’ve seen the worst, but…doing your toilet business on the streets? There’s no shame – jumping queues, spitting in public… …we witness and condemn these acts everyday Inch by inch, Hong Kong is now being taken over by these pests

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Those glittering days are now long gone While our citizens are bleeding, the locusts buy out all our food How can we retake our homeland? (Bad Canto 2011)

The imagery accompanying the song is a carefully-crafted pastiche of real-life scenes from Chinese tourist sites, including crowded shopping centers, queue-jumping, shoving, and of course, public urination.

Tensions between Hong Kong and mainland China rose spectacularly during the

Umbrella Movement of late 2014, in which hundreds of thousands of young people flooded the streets to protest Beijing’s policies. While the rallying cry of this movement was for “genuine universal suffrage,” the long-promised right for Hong Kong people to elect a leader of their own choosing, in fact the zones around the several occupation sites presented a panoply of identity politics and civic passions, some of which was anti-China and anti-Chinese. Chapter 7 will more fully discuss what this movement implies about tourism, territoriality, and the relations between

Hong Kong, the PRC, and Taiwan.

3.5 Tying together the threads

What can be concluded from the narrative above? Cross-Strait tourism has articulated within and between a complicated sovereignty and mobility regime. This assemblage is a contingent product of flexible and instrumental personal and institutional negotiations performed against a backdrop of incompatible legal and territorial claims and an ambiguous and shifting ethno-national terrain. This product has been used by both state and non-state actors to affect

95 structural changes to the sovereign regimes of Taiwan and China. PRC leaders, still officially maintaining that “One Country, Two Systems” is the only acceptable arrangement for Taiwan, ultimately demand a Beijing-dominated zoning “solution”, but for the time being they have instrumentally accepted an even more ambiguous and contradictory arrangement.

Cross-strait travel and tourism has grown in the midst of sovereign blurriness, facilitated by complicated quasi-official, quasi-private arrangements. The unusual travel permits devices used by PRC border-crossers are illustrative. PRC tourists apply not for passports from China and visas from Taiwan, but rather for a “Mainland Resident Taiwan Travel Permit” from the

PRC, and an “Exit and Entry Permit for the Taiwan Region, Republic of China” from Taiwan.

Reciprocally, ROC (Taiwan) nationals must apply for a PRC “Taiwan Compatriot Permit,” and are not able to use their ROC passports to enter China.

The interplay of institutional structures, informal arrangements, and business networks vis a vis tourism reveals a complex institutional topography underlying the region’s unusual sovereignty. One striking example is the fact that the verification of PRC tourists’ personal identification documents, officially required by Taiwan’s National Immigration Agency prior to the granting of travel permits, was conducted not by the agency itself but by a major trade association, the Travel Agent Association of the ROC (Interview, 30 January 2015). In other words, this basic function of state administration was outsourced to an industry actor with complicated ties to both PRC and ROC political state and industry actors.

Changes to mobility regulations and travel patterns have been both cause and effect of the establishment of new political offices on both sides. In May 2010, the PRC-based Cross-Strait

Tourism Association set up office in Taipei, and the Taipei-based Taiwan Strait Travel and

Tourism Association set up office in Beijing. This marked the first establishment of reciprocal

96 state offices of any kind since the founding of the PRC. In Taiwan, this was presented as a non- political and purely functional arrangement to facilitate tourism. Said Tourism Bureau Director-

General Janice Lai Seh-jen, “The new offices will focus on promoting cross-Strait tourism, assisting tourists and resolving emergency situations. Issues relating to politics and foreign affairs will not be involved” (China Times 2010a). However, PRC officials expressed hope for broader significance from the office openings. Fan Liqing, spokeswoman for China’s Taiwan

Affairs Office, said, “The move is conducive to facilitating future cross-Strait development”

(China Times 2010b). Several years later, a major unrealized policy objective of Taiwan Affairs

Office chief Zhang Zhijun’s June 2014 tour was likewise the establishment of new political offices.

That tourism was the rationale for the establishment of the first cross-Strait quasi-state reciprocal offices underscores its political importance, from which its economic impact cannot be divorced. The interplay between and relative importance of the political and the economic is a long-standing concern of cross-Strait researchers. For example, Sutter has argued for the primacy of the economic, suggesting that there is a “dynamic of business interests pulling government policy along as policy makers struggle to keep apace with commercial reality” (2002). It has been suggested following the failure of the more aggressive cross-Strait policies of his predecessors, then-PRC President Hu Jintao’s administration’s primary tactic was the use of economic leverage to increase Taiwan’s dependence on the PRC. This corresponds with the slogan, “yi shang cu zheng, yi min cu guan” (以上促政, 以民促官), quoted by Kastner, meaning to “peddle politics through business, to influence government through the people” (2006). It should not be forgotten that this comes in tandem with a PRC military buildup, of which one of the two primary purposes, says Shambaugh, has been “to develop a range of capabilities with

97 respect to Taiwan” (2004, 85). This last point validates Kastner’s skepticism about economic integration necessarily leading to reduced chance of war. In fact, he points out that the pro- independence Lee Teng-hui once used signs of increasing economic interdependence between

Taiwan and China to argue that Taiwan should push harder for formal independence, because the costs of war would be too great for China to bear.

The above account should demonstrate that not only are the political and economic tangled in Taiwan’s tourism industry and administration, but so is the cultural and ethnic.

Taiwan travel industry leaders who have influenced the development and practice of inbound

PRC tourism largely seem to come from Mainlander backgrounds, and who support KMT and

KMT-aligned politicians. Likewise, President Ma’s cabinet officials who have had major oversight over tourism, including premiers Jiang Yi-huah and Mao Chi-kuo, and former Minister of Transportation and Communication (which oversees the Tourism Bureau) Yeh Kuang-shih

(who was preceded in office by Mao Chi-kuo) also come from Mainlander backgrounds.

To situate the remainder of the dissertation, I would like to underscore several general conclusions from this chapter: 1) There is a conflict between the PRC and Taiwan’s state territorialization programs; 2) Due to the threat of PRC military action, Taiwan’s unresolved legacies of violence and other ethno-national, economic, and political rifts, Taiwan itself harbors multiple, ambiguous, contradictory, and competing state territorialization programs; 3) PRC policy towards Hong Kong, both sovereign administration and touristic, has been formulated with an eye towards Taiwan, and has not been implemented without a popular backlash; 4)

Despite all of the above points, outbound tourism from the PRC to Taiwan has grown rapidly since 2008; 5) Tourism from the PRC to Taiwan remains a contentious issue both between

Taiwan and the PRC, and within Taiwan itself; 6) Tourism has also been promoted as a platform

98 for the development of other forms of cross-Strait economic and political interaction. I will argue in later chapters, using more ethnographic detail, that all of these factors stimulate the contingent development of new cross-Strait business and political circuits and discourse while contributing to tourism’s exacerbation of other social, economic, and ethno-national divisions within Taiwan and from the PRC.

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Chapter 4

The heterotopia of Taiwan’s tourist sites and territorial languages

This chapter introduces contemporary Taiwan as a symbol and set of places politically performed and transformed by tourists, the tourism industry, state tourism officials, and their antagonists and interlocutors. Serving as a tour guide of sorts, I begin with an observation about airport transits and the tourist economy of one particular site—Sun Moon Lake—to develop and deepen an argument about the performance of Taiwan more broadly. In this telling, I also give my own performative narration of a series of Taiwanese tourist sites, painting a picture that allows the reader to visualize both particular tourist spaces and moments, as well as to situate the group and independent tour accounts of Chapters Five and Six.

Following the theoretical framing of this introduction, this chapter opens with the airport, the point of arrival for nearly all tourists from China (the exception being for those who first come by boat to Jinmen, the small island off the coast of Fujian). The tale next travels to Sun Moon Lake, one of Taiwan’s most popular tourist sites, to present a more general argument about the production of Taiwan’s tourist spaces. From there, the discussion turns to the Taipei 101 skyscraper, a symbol of Taiwan’s modernity, inevitable site on the tourist trail, and venue for demonstrators and counter-demonstrators who assemble expressly to target Chinese tourists. It continues with a discussion of several other particular sites before returning to key analytical

100 themes, including a discussion of the kinds of territorial terminologies that are tactically used to index Taiwan as a nation, a region, or as some other kind of (implicitly political) spatial unit.

Like any tour, this is a partial and incomplete account, and like any narrative, it aims more for thematic continuity and flow than for an exhaustion of all possibilities. I suggest that the tourist’s experience and expression of Taiwan wavers between an overdetermined territorial

Rohrshach test and heterotopia, allowing the tourist to project a pre-existing territorial ideology over contradictory realities that threaten to undermine the consistency of any singular sovereign interpretation. This allows the spaces of cross-Strait tourism to remain flexible and labile enough to facilitate a growing but uneasy commerce of bodies, souvenirs, and services.

Taiwan’s iconography presents a visual field of national paradoxes both to residents and visitors. Despite Taiwan’s contested sovereignty, PRC tourists, whatever their feelings and education about Taiwan’s status, are confronted with the specter of the “Republic of China”

(ROC), the name still used in official documents of Taiwan’s state administration, as well as its flag, national anthem, public holidays, and other symbols of a state the PRC leadership describes as illegitimate. As they travel through Taiwan, they see not only manifestations of the ROC, but of the differences in political rationality and permitted expression. This produces exceptional, even multiple and overlapping senses of sovereignty, compounded when Taiwanese independence activists dispute not only the sovereignty of the PRC but the legitimacy of the

ROC itself.

Yet, even as distinctive ROC or Taiwanese iconography and sensory indicators manifest throughout the island’s landscape, many tourists are able to overlook these markers of national- territorial difference, insisting in interviews that Taiwan is still clearly a part of China. In interviews, many PRC group tourists say that they feel as if they are still within China—not just

101 because of the PRC’s territorial claims—but because, I will ultimately argue, state and industry actors shape their touristic experience of Taiwan in ways that are very similar to those of the

PRC. In other words, a sufficient subset of the Taiwanese public and private sector effectively collaborates with the PRC regime to produce an effect of being in “China” for tourists traveling within the liminal spaces of Taiwan. This effect is achieved through both direct and conscious performances of industry actors, as well as the more subtle and indirect diffusion of industry practices throughout the liminal spaces of tourism to permeate much of Taiwan.

Features I will discuss below—a growing abundance of simplified Chinese script,

Mainland Chinese-accented tourism workers, and Mainland Chinese-oriented souvenir shopping—are not unique to tourism from China to Taiwan. Indeed, such phenomena can be found anywhere that Chinese tourists go, including the US or Europe, and have been written about by Nyíri (2010) and even The New Yorker’s Evan Osnos. In this way, Taiwan fits into a larger pattern of outbound Chinese tourist destinations that have found themselves adjusting their visual and cultural landscapes to meet the desires of this growing market segment. Furthermore, apart from the Ma administration’s aggressive promotion of tourism, the appearance of these

“signs of China” in Taiwan does not conclusively demonstrate that inbound Chinese tourism is tantamount to a top-down, policy-driven “sinicization” of Taiwan, even if it is highly concordant with Ma and the KMT’s rhetorical performance of Taiwan as the “standard-bearer” of . It is, at least, not as blunt an instrument as past KMT policies that destroyed visual traces of the Japanese colonial period, prohibited non-Mandarin speech in educational and other quasi- official contexts, renamed streets and other public spaces after mainland Chinese cities and ROC

102 state ideologies, and targeted school textbooks as vessels for fashioning a China-identified citizenry (Makeham and Hsiau 2005; Jacobs 2012).2

What these touristic manifestations of PRC cultural landscapes do, however, is exemplify the subtle and diffuse ways that such a “sinicization” may still be taking place. It also shows that it articulates unevenly within particular circuits of tourist attractions, hotels, restaurants, shops, and so on. Given the fraught and contested nature of Taiwan’s relationship with China, this adds a level of political tension to this process within Taiwan’s polity. As noted by Chinese tour directors with experience working in Europe and elsewhere, it is not only the Chinese language spoken or displayed in tourist sites that produces a sense of familiarity for Chinese tourists, but also the Chinese language and other sufficiently familiar cultural features that pervades the rest of Taiwan. For Chinese tourists who have been taught the hegemonic territorial interpretation of

Taiwan as a part of China, these cultural features simply prove a point that most rarely question.

Yet, as I discuss particularly in Chapter Six, there are still openings for different interpretations, especially for independent tourists.

The accounts below will borrow from Foucault’s concept of “heterotopia”, a space which is “in relation with all other sites, but in such a way to suspect, neutralize, or invert the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect’’ (Foucault 1986). Taiwan itself can be read as a particularly political kind of heterotopia that subverts the Westphalian system (Mengin

2008)— a sovereign state that is not a sovereign state, a province that is not a province, a nation that calls into question the very concept of nationhood, a place “capable of juxtaposing in a

2 Textbook policy has been an enduring source and site of controversy over state territorial ideology in Taiwan, and even provoked a major student protest and tragic suicide as recently as 2015.

103 single real place several places, several sites that are in themselves incompatible’’ (Foucault

1986, 25). As the nominal “Republic of China” with an emergent and distinctive new subjectivity, it juxtaposes Chinese cultural and political elements in idiosyncratic ways, calling ideas of China and Chinesesness into question (Callahan 2004).

Foucault’s “heterotopia,” introduced in lectures and radio addresses that were not published in print until after his death, was very much a preliminary concept that has received substantial critique. My treatment of Taiwan as heterotopia resists Saldanha’s (2008) critique that Foucault’s proposal harbors a latent : I do not use the concept below to oppose

Taiwan to a totalizing, structuralist concept of “society,” or even a static world system of nation states. Rather, my framework recognizes these as dynamic, performative, and relational constructions. I also do not employ heterotopia as a “banal,” depoliticized category of endlessly interchangeable places, as Harvey (2000) would have it, nor as a wayward cousin of “utopia”.

Rather, I am using it in a more qualified and limited way to explore how Taiwan suspects, neutralizes, and inverts two particular territorial concepts—that of “China” itself, and that of the modern, bounded territorial nation-state system. My use of heterotopia is more in line with

Johnson’s nuanced treatment of the strengths and weaknesses of “heterotopology,” in which

“[T]he concept of heterotopia introduces a starting point for imagining, inventing and diversifying space: nothing more, nothing less” (Johnson 2013, 800). I use heterotopia here less as a descriptor of Taiwan, but more as analytic method to highlight both the familiar and uncanny in the spaces of Taiwan that are produced for and traversed by the Chinese tourist, and to trace ways that Taiwan disrupts commonplace tourist assumptions about China, as well as of exclusive, territorially-bounded nation-states writ large.

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4.1 Taiwan’s airports as heterotopia within a heterotopia

The airport, a nexus of borders and bordering practices, has been examined in depth by

Salter, who not only examines its functions of control and surveillance, but also suggests that since an airport “connects the national and the international (also the national to itself), the domestic and the foreign, in a way that problematizes those connections” (Salter 2007, 49), that airports are fine sites for heterotopic analysis, the airport in Taiwan can thus be treated as a heterotopia within a heterotopia.

Taipei is served by two airports: Songshan Airport, within Taipei City, and Taoyuan

International Airport (previously named for Chiang Kai-Shek), which is larger and serves more long-haul flights. Other major points of entry include Taichung and Kaohsiung international airports. In PRC airports, Taiwan is consistently represented as a non-international destination, and is always discursively grouped with Hong Kong and Macau (special administrative regions of China) in separate terminal and display areas: “International and Hong Kong/Macau/Taiwan

Flights.” In contrast, the Songshan and Taoyuan Airports terminal layout and signage simply designate flight arrivals from and departures to China as “International,” not “International and

(Mainland) China”. In the Immigration and Customs areas, PRC nationals must line up with other international travelers in the “Non-Republic of China passport holder” section, while ROC passport holders enter the area for local nationals, which does not use the word “Taiwan” and is labeled for “Passport holders of the Republic of China”. This contrasts with transit practice in

PRC airports, where ROC travelers must enter the same line as PRC travelers and use “Taiwan

Compatriot” travel permits (Tai bao zheng, 台胞證).

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Figure 2: Shanghai Pudong airport terminal gate sign with "International-Hong Kong-Macau- Taiwan Departures." Author photo.

The use of “International and Hong Kong/Macau/Taiwan” (gang ao tai, 港澳台) signage in PRC airports is clearly distinct from the simpler use of “International” signage in

Taiwan airports. This usage implies a less ambiguous sense of Taiwan’s external boundaries than those of the PRC, despite the artefactual quality of the ROC’s overlapping territorial claims.

While the ROC constitution still specifies that mainland China and Taiwan are two different areas of the ROC (and the PRC actively claims Taiwan as part of its own territory), these legal inscriptions, as discussed in Chapter Two, are decreasingly material within the life world of

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Taiwan. Thus, at the very point of entry for PRC tourists in Taiwan, there is already the hint of territorial and political difference. Further compounding this visual difference is the use of traditional on signage, as opposed to the simplified Chinese used in the PRC.

Figure 3: Taipei Songshan Airport, International departures board. Author photo.

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Figure 4: Taipei Songshan Airport, International departures sign. Author photo.

Yet this linguistic and spatial arrangement also resembles Hong Kong, which also uses traditional characters, and where mainland Chinese travelers must also use special travel permits and line up separately. Furthermore, Taiwan’s national flag-carrier is still named China

(Zhonghua, 中華) Airlines, while China’s similarly-named flag carrier is (Zhongguo,

中國). Many of Taiwan’s largest companies, on display in airport advertisements, also include

Chinese-sounding names, like China Telecom (Zhonghua dianxin, 中華電信) and China Post

(Zhonghua youzheng, 中華郵政). This territorial-linguistic legacy of the KMT (Chinese

Nationalist) party-state development, with its nationalized companies, is not entirely dissimilar to that of the PRC, but the use of Chinese (Zhonghua 中華) versus Chinese (Zhongguo 中國) implies a slightly more ethno-cultural than territorial flavor.

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Travelers from China to Taiwan are therefore presented upon arrival with an unsettlingly similar yet oddly displaced visual field that simultaneously recapitulates and subverts the usual circuits of mobility and contours of territorial language. For example, after landing at the

Taoyuan airport with my tour group from Shanghai in August 2014, as we entered the general non-ROC citizen immigration line with several hundred other Chinese tourists, the tour director reminded the group to take good care of the Taiwan entry permit, which he referred to as a

“visa” (qianzheng, 簽證). One of the group noted the image of the flag of the Republic of China on the top of the permit, and asked, “Is that Taiwan’s national flag (guoqi, 國旗)?” His colleague replied, “What national flag?” in a tone that suggested he disapproved of the use of the term,

“national flag”. One of the children in the group asked his mother, “Mom, why do we need this for Taiwan?” He received no answer.

For this group and many others, the airport serves not only as the physical entry-point to a long-forbidden island, but the prelude to a journey that may or may not disrupt the territorial imaginaries with which they interpret and then transform the island.

4.2 Sun Moon Lake as both a Chinese scenic spot and national treasure of

Taiwan

Sun Moon Lake, in , is one of Taiwan’s most popular tourist sites.

Originally two lakes, the Japanese colonial administration connected and expanded the zone after building a hydroelectric dam. Traditionally popular with Taiwanese families and honeymooners,

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Sun Moon Lake is now a near-mandatory stop for all PRC group tours. Reliable statistics on visitor identity remain sparse, but according to every vendor I interviewed, as early as 2011, three years after the opening of group leisure tourism from China, PRC tourists already vastly outnumbered Taiwanese visitors. Their proportion continues rising.

Sun Moon Lake is, along with Alishan, one of the two tourist sites in Taiwan that all PRC tourists reported learning about in their high school textbooks. As one Shanghainese tour director told me, “If we don’t go to both places, it’s like we’ve never been to Taiwan.” These sites combine several themes that are familiar for PRC tourists: The “scenic spot”, with mountains and water, which has been inscribed with meaning and relevance by state-sponsored literati

(Nyíri 2006); and the cultural attractions of indigenous people and practices. Sun Moon Lake’s major draws are its alpine lake views and indigenous Thao ethnic culture. Indeed, one visitor from remarked, “This is just like back home in China proper (neidi, 內地). We also have minorities too, and song and dance shows.”

The influx of PRC tourists has dampened the Taiwanese desire to visit Sun Moon Lake.

“It’s pretty but I don’t go there anymore. If I wanted to feel like I’m in China, I’d just go to

China,” said one man from Taipei. But Sun Moon Lake is not just viewed by Taiwanese as a

“Chinese” space—PRC tourists themselves reported feeling as if they were still in China.

Although this effect is not limited to Sun Moon Lake, I will first focus on this particular site before extending this observation to the entire island. I argue that this perception is not simply due to the large number of PRC tourists in the area, but is produced by the structure of the tourism industry itself. Essentially, the Taiwanese tourism industry, in concert with Hong Kong and PRC-based sales agents and tour directors, has begun producing an experience so similar to that of PRC domestic tourism that PRC tourists are able to ignore other markers of national-

110 territorial difference. This effect is primed and multiplied by the PRC’s territorial claims to

Taiwan, and a vast system of ideological control that pervades the PRC’s education system, mediascape and even its devices of mobility. PRC tourists don’t just learn about Sun Moon Lake from their high school textbooks and TV shows about tourist destinations—now they see it printed in the new PRC passport as an image that represents and performatively claims Taiwan as a province of China (see Figure 1).

Figure 5. Sun Moon Lake, Taiwan, on page 43 of the PRC passport. Sina Weibo.

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Sun Moon Lake’s leisure travel itinerary is straightforward. Most PRC tourists arrive in large buses driven from Taipei or Taoyuan. The vast majority stays in hotels in Shuishe, a lakefront tourist town, and eat pre-ordered group meals of so-called local specialty dishes like

“President Fish”, so named because it was supposedly a favorite of the late President Chiang

Kai-shek. Either the same or the following day, they charter a boat from the Shuishe Port and circle the lake, taking in sights including , the legendary origin of the Thao , now off-limits to non-, and area temples. The boats stop at Itashao, the home of the several hundred member-strong Thao tribe, on the opposite side of the lake from Shuishe. Nearly all of the Thao people of Itashao live in pre-fabricated temporary housing provided by state authorities after a disastrous 1999 earthquake that destroyed many structures in town, and caused widespread damage throughout central Taiwan.

Itashao, in addition to being the home for the few remaining Thao people, is also home to the Formosan Aboriginal Culture Village, an ethnic theme park with replica villages of nine different indigenous groups in Taiwan. The theme park is connected to the boat dock via a cable car. Popular with Taiwanese tourists, it is rarely visited by PRC group tourists. One tour director guide from explained that, “Mainlanders aren’t really interested in Taiwanese aborigines. We have our own minorities. Our tourists are more interested in seeing scenery and maybe some Nationalist history.” However, according to three area vendors, shopping-focused itineraries and the high entrance price of the park (over US$20, even with a group discount) are more likely explanations for the park’s dearth of PRC tourists. Indigenous heritage is certainly for sale throughout Itashao, and serves as the theme for large restaurants and souvenir shops that now cater almost exclusively to PRC group tours.

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The structure of tourism in the area has become so commercially regimented and socio- spatially segregated that it was difficult for me to even enter these shops as an individual visitor.

After rejections from staff at five shops who explained that they only host pre-arranged tour groups, I finally found two shops where I was able to browse products while watching as groups entered and exited. The basic group sale sequence proceeded as follows: A large group of tourists entered the store and sat on chairs in front of a counter filled with products for sale.

These products included royal bee jelly, medicinal mushroom, and other high-value items marketed as health supplements. After the tourists took their seats around the corner, a female store employee dressed in aboriginal regalia, including feathers, animal skins and a headdress, welcomed the group with a -language song about local aboriginal culture.

Several male tourists lit cigarettes in direct view of the store’s anti-smoking signs, and were not admonished by store staff. After finishing her song, the store hostess offered a few more words about the local Thao people, and then explained that their products were “National Treasures of

Taiwan (Taiwan guobao, 台灣國寶)”, a potentially provocative phrase that performs Taiwan as a nation. Staff behind the counters began pouring copious amounts of tea and aggressively selling their products to the tourists, who seemed mostly disinterested.

The above description of ethnic-themed shopping tourism should be familiar to anyone who has personally observed or read reports of such tourism in the PRC. The structure of the sale process, as well as the indigenous aesthetic theme, was almost identical to what I’ve seen in ethnic minority-themed tourist shops in the PRC’s Island. What is remarkable is here is how commission-based group tour shopping, previously uncommon in Taiwan, has become the dominant model, and how this along with the territorial ideology of “One China” is producing an effect of PRC stateness for PRC tourists.

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4.3 Taipei 101: A convergence of contradictory states

Even as the Taiwanese travel industry has collaborated in the largely successful touristic performance of Taiwan as a part of China, the tourists themselves, as well as Taiwanese passing by, have become targets for protester performances of different sovereignties. It doesn’t require a ministerial-level guest like Zhang Zhijun to provoke such scenes. Like the image of Zhang’s paint-covered entourage, with which this dissertation began, the evolving scene at Taipei 101 exemplifies the heterotopic and even ironic space produced by cross-Strait tourism, the politics of sovereign performance, and the performativity of political demonstration.

The Taipei 101 mall and skyscraper, between 2004 and 2010 the world’s tallest building, is a mandatory stop on the Taiwan tourist circuit. With a high-end mall and an observation deck on the 89th floor, it receives at least 10,000 tourists a day, of whom 55 to 60 percent are Chinese, according to Taipei 101 spokesperson Michael Liu (Interview, 30 March 2014). This has made the public entrance of Taipei 101 both a magnet for tourists and a flashpoint for groups and individuals competing for their attention, including religious activists from Falun Gong, a religious group banned in the PRC, as well as pro-unification and Taiwan independence activists.

While members of these groups have long histories of organizational activity and demonstrations in Taiwan, it has taken the emergence of a regular Chinese tourist circuit for all of them to attempt to regularly occupy the same small public space indefinitely. The resulting space is seen as exceptional not only by Chinese tourists, but also by Taiwanese locals. Not only is it seen as unusual and even heterotopian, but it has also exhibited a kind of legal exceptionality: Pro-

114 unification, pro-China protesters regularly flouted local law and even kicked police officers while the then-KMT city administration looked the other way.

Members of Falun Gong have demonstrated in front of Taipei 101 since 2009, nearly as long as the tower has received Chinese leisure tour groups. They are not only a daily presence at

Taipei 101, but also at other popular tourist sites including the National Palace Museum. Their billboards now dot much of the Taiwanese countryside alongside highway bus routes. Also prevalent in international destinations, including Bali and Thailand, their visual presence is now a sure sign of the co-presence of Chinese tourists.

Like the PRC, the Taiwan-based, pro-unification Concentric Patriotism Association of the ROC (CPAROC, Zhonghua aiguo tongxinhui, 中華愛國同心會) has described Falun Gong as an “evil cult” (xiejiao, 邪教). Unlike PRC authorities, CPAROC is unable to ban them outright. Since 2013, in response, the CPAROC did something it could not do in China—staged regular counter-protests with volumes so high that they sonically overwhelm the presence of the quieter Falun Gong, even if the latter has a larger number of demonstrators. These have earned them citation threats from police for disturbing public order, but few actual tickets. In fact,

CPAROC members have been caught on video kicking police, who did not make any arrests until the pro-unification KMT mayor Hau Lung-bin was succeeded in early 2015 by a DPP- aligned independent, Ko Wen-je, who criticized CPAROC behavior (Hsiao 2015; Wu and Chen

2015).

CPAROC members, often dressed in quasi-military uniforms, typically set up in front of the entrance to Taipei 101. They unloaded directly next to the Falun Gong demonstrators, unfurling both ROC and PRC flags and loudly projecting revolutionary Chinese communist

115 anthems through loudspeakers. Typical slogans, chanted through megaphones, included

“Without the Communist Party, there’d be no new China!” and “Unity of the Chinese

Ethnicities” (Zhonghua minzu tuanjie, 中華民族團結). Banners called for the “Unity of Greater

China” (Da Zhonghua tuanjie, 大中華團結), with the ROC flag on the left, the PRC flag on the right, and a stylized in the middle. At every demonstration stood a man in a military jumpsuit, holding the PRC flag, saluting the tourists (as in Figure 2).

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Figure 6: Superimposed sovereignties of the PRC, ROC, and an independent Taiwan on parade at Taipei 101. Author photo.

Every Taiwanese tourist or passerby available for interview expressed mild disapproval of the CPAROC. A typical comment came from one of a pair of 23 year-old design students:

“This is so ridiculous. I wish I had a little bomb to toss in there,” one said, smiling, before they

117 both walked away. Another Taiwanese shopper, a 35 year-old lawyer, asked, “Patriots? This is a patriotic group? For which country? Taiwan or the PRC?” No Chinese tourists asked similar questions. Instead, many expressed support for the CPAROC with both their cameras and .

Numerous groups took photos of and with the demonstrators. Some even posed for shots waving not only the PRC flag, but the ROC flag next to it, a forbidden national symbol all but unseen in

China.

This heterotopian space, a political stage and battleground to influence the hearts and minds of the Chinese tourist in Taiwan, was laden with irony. The higher the PRC flag was flown, the more obvious it was to the tourists that they are somewhere very different from China.

As Peihan, a 20-something secretary from who had just arrived to begin her 8-day

Taiwan tour told me during an interview, “Wow, speech here is so free. Taiwan is definitely different than the Mainland. See this [pointing to demonstrators]? We don’t have this. Taiwan is a bit excitable/tense (jidong, 激動). It’s kind of weird.” Peipei, a 28 year-old bank clerk from

Hunan, provided a qualified endorsement of the demonstration: “We want both sides of the strait to be closer, so we’re happy to see this, even if the commotion is unusual for us. At least someone is talking back to these Falun Gong types” (Interview, 22 May 2014).

The irony of protesters using tactics that would be illegal in China to assert Chinese sovereignty in Taiwan is also clear to building management, which has complained about the difficulty of balancing citizens’ speech rights with the mall’s commercial operations. Michael

Liu, the Taipei 101 spokesperson observed, “All this [protest activity] only demonstrates that

Taiwan is so free, unlike where they’re coming from” (Interview, 2 April 2014).

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In May 2014, another group of demonstrators, The Taiwan Independence Revolutionary

Army (TIRA), joined the fray. According to convener Lai Fang-cheng, TIRA entered to “to defend Falun Gong from intimidation… to show how sane and dignified independence activists are as opposed to groups like CPAROC… and to let Chinese tourists know that Taiwan is an independent, democratic country” (Interview, 26 May 2014). Lai, who has a long history with pro-democracy and pro-independence activism, took his group to the Taipei 101 entrance for the first time on May 18. Several dozen TIRA members lined up on the sidewalk in front of the bus zone, raising flags with slogans such as: “I am Taiwanese, not Chinese; Taiwan is not the territory of the Republic of China; The voice of Taiwan independence and nation building must not disappear without a trace.” Many flags were signed with tags like “Taiwan Nationalist

Force” and Militiamen for Taiwan Independence,” and raised as Taiwanese (Minnan)-language marching songs were projected from a loudspeaker.

On the first day of the TIRA’s outing, the CPAROC was nowhere to be seen. But one week later, on Saturday, May 25, all three groups protested for the first time in the same place, at the same time, allowing a remarkable photograph in Figure 2. In this image, we see a TIRA

“militiaman” waving his independence flag directly between CPAROC’s People's Republic of

China and Republic of China flags. While Taipei 101 may have lost its exceptional status as the world's tallest building, Taiwan’s exceptional sovereignty, and its performatively ambiguous nationalism are on full display here.

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Figure 7: TIRA protester in between CPAROC proters at entrance to Taipei 101. Source: Author, 24 May 2014.

As remarkable as these photos are, what they cannot convey is the sheer sensory chaos and semiotic overload of the scene. The TIRA’s Taiwanese marching music clashed with the

CPAROC’s communist Chinese anthems. Confounded tourists were unable to tell who was who.

Several asked each other if the TIRA and the ROC flag-bearers were from the same group.

Unsurprisingly, while Taiwanese expressed amusement and several foreign tourists took photos

120 with the independence flags, Chinese tourists responded more tepidly to the pro-Taiwan activists.

A few took photos, but all attempted to avoid standing too close to them while waiting for their buses. Of the 18 tourists interviewed over one month of weekend protests, all but one assumed that the TIRA and Falun Gong were the same group, when in fact members of both groups claimed and evidenced no membership overlap. Even Taiwanese passers-by, more familiar with street demonstrations and iconographic implications than the Chinese tourists, couldn’t read through the iconographic over-saturation.

Much like Taiwan’s state space in general, this particular tourist site became a kind of protest dance of superimposed sovereignties, with each side spontaneously separating only to merge back to re-occupy the others’ visual and sonic claim. This space was not quite Chinese, not quite Taiwanese, neither both, nor neither. It was nothing if not a heterotopia.

4.4 The National Palace Museum, the “umbilical cord” of Chinese nationalism in Taiwan

Featuring as much of the collection of imperial treasures that the KMT was able to ship to

Taiwan during their retreat from China, the National Palace Museum is widely regarded as the world’s greatest museum of Chinese antiquities. The National Palace Museum is located in a green, suburban area of Taipei city and is administered directly under the Presidential Office. It has long been crucial to the KMT’s construction of Taiwan as the “standard-bearer” or “bastion” of Chinese culture (Makeham and Hsiau 2005), serving as “a kind of cultural umbilical cord

121 linking Taiwan to China’s grand tradition” and cementing the party’s role as this culture and tradition’s rightful (Hughes 2011, 3). Featuring “national treasures” (guobao, 國寶) of

China, its display pieces differ significantly in provenance, function, and aesthetics from the

“national treasures” promoted as commercial products in the Sun Moon Lake souvenir stores.

For a long time, a visit to the museum was a subdued and quiet experience geared primarily at scholars and domestic and (non-Chinese) international visitors. But its appeal for

Chinese tourists had been noted long before 2008 (T.-I. Tsai 2005), and since the floodgates opened, large groups of Chinese tourists have radically transformed the museum-going experience. Instead of the hushed ambience of years past, the museum now features flag-waving tour guides and long lines for star attractions, particularly the jade carvings that resemble a head of bok choy cabbage and a slab of fatty meat. Uniformed attendants now patrol the halls, waving signs that request visitors to keep their voices down. Taiwanese locals frequently complain of crowding, and in response, the museum has experimented with piecemeal mitigation measures, including reserving Friday evenings for independent (non-tour group) visitors. A sense of chaos, mismanagement, and poor planning has been observed even by KMT-affiliated academics such as Chen De-sheng, who suggested that the owners of popular dumpling Ding Tai Fung would do a better job managing it than the government-run agency administrators (Interview, 20

March 2014).

Like Taipei 101, the National Palace Museum is also inevitably home to a regular display by Falun Gong demonstrators and meditators. Unsurprisingly, given the museum’s location far away from the daily traffic of other Taiwanese citizens, the pro-PRC CPAROC and the Taiwan

Independence Revolutionary Army have not yet staged any counter-demonstrations here.

Moreover, the opportunity to both target Chinese tourists while simultaneously asserting

122 authority over Chinese history (as manifested in the museum) is more congruent with Falun

Gong’s discursive claims to be the true heirs to “5,000 years of Chinese culture,” as opposed to their CCP antagonists.

For Chinese tourists, the National Palace Museum projects the same function the KMT has long intended it to serve—legitimation, continuity, and authority over Chinese culture. It is simultaneously a reminder of the unresolved cultural and material politics of the CCP-KMT split and Cold War-era military tensions. It is also, like the practice and management of tourism itself, a platform for quasi-official PRC-ROC collaboration, including the limited exchange of artifacts for exhibition. But despite (or even because of) these different points of tension it is a key site in the performance of Taiwan as a Chinese territory, and therefore both an essential stop on the tourist trail and a site of ambivalence for Taiwanese nationalists.

4.5 Shilin Night Market

For many Chinese tourists, Taiwan’s night markets’ varied snacks and delicacies are at least as major of a draw as its distinctive political history and scenic attractions, and the Shilin

Night Market, in the north of Taipei, is the island’s biggest and most famous night market. Many tourist itineraries, both on online booking engines for independent tourists and set group tours, highlight food above all else. Shilin, as the most emblematic of food destinations and the greatest recipient of large tour groups, has found success to be a double-edged sword.

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When I first lived in Taiwan as a language student in 2001, Shilin was a place where local friends were eager to take me to experience the best of Taiwanese street cuisine. Those same friends now scoff at the market, decrying it as poor value for money and a generally low- quality experience. Like the southern beach town of Kenting, it has become “entirely for

Mainland tourists” since 2008, in the slightly hyperbolic words of a 26 year-old female school- teacher, a 38 year-old male tour bus driver, and several other Taiwanese informants. Traffic patterns and access points have changed in the area, with designated pick-up and drop-off points for large tour buses.

To be sure, Shilin still does attract Taiwanese and non-Chinese international tourists, but the temporality has shifted. According to Shilin vendors, confirmed by my own firsthand observations, these segments come later at night, after the Chinese tourists have returned to their hotels. As Shilin has “gone to the Mainlanders,” other smaller night markets in Taipei have gained in the esteem of local foodies, including Raohe and . Inevitably, these smaller markets have also become destinations for more adventurous Mainland culinary tourists looking for slightly more off-the-beaten path destinations. Meanwhile, Shilin has taken on a minor ironic appeal as a place where Taiwanese can go to watch tourists, like Bangkok’s Khao San Road for

Thai locals, minus the banana pancakes and tie-dyed sarongs.

4.6 Dulan, a cosmopolitan aboriginal counterpoint to group tourism

On the southeast coast’s , Dulan is about as far as you can get from Taipei and still stay on the Taiwanese mainland. Founded as an Amis aboriginal village, the name,

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Dulan, is a Chinese translation of the Amis word, A’tolan, meaning pile of rocks. Nestled between high mountains and the sea, and close to Taiwan’s most well-regarded surf spots, it is home to only one minor, free group tourist site, Water Running Up (shui wang shang liu, 水往上

流), a landscaped hillside built around an optical illusion that gives viewers the sense that its small man-made rivulet is flowing upwards against the force of gravity. This site is along the highway between the southern beach town of Kenting and the entrance to Taroko Gorge, a national park and more major scenic site in in the central eastern coast.

Apart from Water Running Up, Dulan is largely unknown and illegible to Chinese tour groups—not much more than a —but it looms increasingly large as an offbeat destination for independent Taiwanese and Chinese tourists. More than anywhere else in Taiwan, it appears to be following a classic pattern seen in southeast Asia and other international tourist destinations—including Dali or in —in which it is first “discovered” by foreign backpackers and avant-garde local nationals as an “off the beaten path” site of small guesthouses and homestays before being re-developed for more mass market tourism. In the process, real estate prices continue rising and locals (or longer-term residents) complain of being squeezed out, while others delight in potential profits.

A major point of contention has been the on-again, off-again construction of the massive

Miramar Hotel on a nearby beach, which activists contend was approved by a corrupt city administration and carried out without proper environmental impact assessments. The hotel currently sits empty and unopened, its legality awaiting further determination from the court system. Anti-hotel activists have been protesting since the initial groundbreaking, both locally and in Taipei, and many even joined the Sunflower occupation of the Legislative Yuan for a memorable speech and round of slogan chanting: “Miramar Hotel, tear it down!” (Meiliwan chai

125 chai chai!, 美麗灣拆拆拆!) Many of these activists have told me privately that they assume the hotel is intended for Chinese tourists.

Dulan’s many charms include its dramatic mountains and coastline, lively community of

Amis woodcarving artists and musicians, and international surf and culinary culture. A hotspot in

Taiwan’s burgeoning bed and breakfast (minsu, 民宿) scene, it is also home to several Italian restaurants, aboriginal-themed (if not owned and operated) cafes, and live music houses that feature folk or aboriginal music. A typical stroll down the main street of Dulan includes sights of

Amis grandmothers rolling and chewing betelnut (a traditional stimulant), a European expatriate slinging a surfboard onto a motorbike, a young Chinese tourist couple taking cell phone photos, and a newly-arrived vendor from central Taiwan selling home-made “stinky tofu” to tourists and locals alike.

While tourism plays an increasingly large role in the day-to-day life and economics of the town, Dulan, more than anywhere described earlier in this chapter, presents as a heterogeneous space of multiple dimensions—it spans, attracts, and promotes mixing between generations, ethnicities, languages, and landscapes. It affords the Chinese independent tourist the opportunity to mix with a wider variety of in a less controlled or enclavic space and looser timeframe than, say, a spatiotemporally-bound and curated site like the National Palace Museum.

A fine example of such an encounter took place one night in April 2015 at Hao de wo (好

的窩), a café and performance space run by Homi Ma, a 2nd generation Mainlander (waisheng erdai, 外省二代) and small businesswoman married to Dakanow, a well-known, Lukai aboriginal folk singer. Homi owns several other shops in Dulan, and Dakanow was part of the anti-hotel activist contingent that joined the Sunflower occupation of the Legislative Yuan. At

126 that show, as I sat in the back, the evening’s folk singer, an indigenous Amis man, had asked the audience to clap to welcome “our friends from the Interior (neidi, 內地).” Homi then took the microphone to welcome them, but as “Chinese guests visiting Our Taiwan” (Zhongguo de keren lai dao women Taiwan, 中國的客人來到我們台灣). During the next break in the set, I engaged the tourists and requested an interview, during which one of them, 22 year-old female college student from , , described Taiwan as “an island in the Pacific.” This rhetorical move, popular with Taiwanese nationalists and extremely rare among Chinese tourists, decenters

China in Taiwan’s territorial imaginary. Even in this brief episode in an otherwise casual performance space in an “off-the-beaten path” village, the profound complexity of cross-Strait ethno-national linguistic politics was abundantly evident. Likewise evident, at least for a certain kind of tourist, was the potential for a rupture of the PRC territorial narrative.

4.7 Producing Taiwan as a touristed part of China

Most of the places described above are key sites on the tourist trail and are promoted within China as must-see destinations, and within Taiwan, increasingly re-engineered (with spectacularly mixed results) towards Chinese tourists. While attention to these sites is crucial, it’s important to note that Taiwan is experienced as more than an accretion of moments. Rather, it as a holistic gestalt composed of the projection of memories onto a re-imagined whole. In other words, what I am suggesting is that Taiwan is not just a sum of discrete, specific places that individually resemble China to Chinese tourists, but that the overall spatial and linguistic arrangement of tourist experience collectively produces an effect of being in China for not only

127 many tourists, but increasingly for the Taiwanese locals who engage with them. In sum, the

Chinese tourist in Taiwan travels in and manifests a heterotopic space that often produces a perception of superimposed or ambiguous sovereignty and state territory for both tourists and locals. Based on similarities and differences in national iconography and everyday experience, tourists variously express senses of being in Taiwan, China, or both, even as they compare and contrast the two territories. As inbound Chinese tourism increases, Taiwanese locals observe a rising sense of similarity between Taiwanese and Chinese tourist spaces, which has also become an occasion for protest and contestation.

The advent of Chinese tourism has produced multiple territorial effects not just for tourists, but for hosts. The ironic sense of being within “China” was noted during interviews with

Taiwanese, who lamented the influx of PRC tourists to popular tourist sites such as the National

Palace Museum and Sun Moon Lake. “It’s pretty but I don’t go there anymore. If I wanted to feel like I’m in China, I’d just go to China,” said a Taipei colleague. His friends nodded in agreement. The perception of Sun Moon Lake as being “in China” is not simply due to the large number of PRC tourists in the area, but is produced by the political-economic structure of the tourism industry, as well as the spatio-temporal structure of group tours. Essentially, the collaboration of Taiwanese and Chinese tourism industry actors produces an experience so similar to that of PRC domestic tourism that Taiwanese interlocutors express alienation while

PRC tourists are able to overlook markers of national difference. This effect is primed by the

PRC’s oft-repeated territorial claims to Taiwan and the PRC’s domestic education system and media organs.

In an interview in the southern city of , the oldest and perhaps most quintessentially “Taiwanese” city, one tourist from Anhui stated a common sentiment of

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sameness: “I feel like this is more or less the same as touring in the ‘interior’ (neidi, 內地). We get on the bus, get off the bus, take some photos, eat, shop, jump back on the bus, and go back to the hotel. It’s all the same. We all know that Taiwan is a part of China, anyway.” My roommate for a full 8-day group tour of Taiwan, a Shanghai-based construction worker from , said to me in the farther south town of , “Yes, it still feels like I haven't really left China.

And especially here in the south in this poorer, more rural place. It feels even more like the countryside where I'm from. I don't see much of a difference” (This particular tour will be discussed in considerable detail in Chapter Five). It was remarkable that the farther into the pro- independence, Taiwan-identified south we traveled, the more he perceived it as “Chinese”. I heard similar remarks from nearly every other PRC group tourist I spoke with in Taiwan, both in formal interviews and as passing remarks.

Sometimes these sentiments from tourists were bookended with phrases from a nationalizing strain of discourse, for example, “Same race, same culture (tongzhong, tongwen, 同

種同文)”, were terms first used in the late 19th century among proto-pan Asianists to posit commonalities between Chinese and other Asians in opposition to imperialistic Europeans and

Americans (Karl 1998). This phrase has a complicated and ironic heritage. It was used in its

Japanese form (dobun dotsu) in the 1930s to justify Japanese colonialism in China. Several

Taiwanese businessmen have told me that while doing business in the PRC in the 1980s, they also used the phrase, “tongzhong, tongwen”, to advertise their relative cultural advantage and knowledge when competing for business with other non-PRC investors. Later in the 1990s, PRC leader Jiang Zemin used “tongzhong, tongwen” to argue that Taiwan is a part of China (Sautman

1997). Therefore, it comes as no surprise that PRC tourists in Taiwan speak from this same nationalizing script.

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This effect of PRC stateness is perceived not just by first-time tourists at Sun Moon Lake, but also by PRC tour directors who have been to Taiwan many times. In an interview in Taipei at the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, a shrine to the founder of the KMT, Cai Cai, a young tour director from Province told me, in between taking photos with her iPhone, that she felt like she “hadn’t really left the interior/”. She explained that this is because the people look similar, the language is similar, and after directing several tour groups, she was already familiar with Taiwan (Interview, 2 July 2012). More importantly, the commercially- mediated experience of space and time was nearly identical. “I might as well be touring in the mainland. The tour sequence is almost the same…except for having to get a permit and pass immigration lines.” This perception confirms the importance of border performativity, discussed in Chapter 3, for the construction of national territory.

As a comparison, I asked her to contrast this with her experiences leading tours in

Europe. “Yes, itineraries are also rushed there, and we do lots of shopping, but mostly for international brand name products. Everything there looks and feels so different from China. The language is totally different, the people don’t look like us. We don’t have a common history, or common race or nation.” Again, the “same race, same culture” phrase emerged, showing how effective the territorial socialization (Newman 1999) engendered by PRC education has been for producing effects of PRC stateness in Taiwan.

4.8 The language of touristic territorialization

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Many actors in the Taiwanese travel industry have collaborated in the touristic performance of Taiwan as a part of China, and much of the performance is linguistic. On numerous occasions, I observed Taiwanese tour guides and souvenir salespeople conversing with

PRC tourists and using expressions like “the interior/central China” (neidi, 內地), and “we

Chinese people” (zanmen Huaren, 咱們華人), which are almost never heard otherwise in

Taiwan. A saleslady at an Apple electronics reseller at Taipei 101 told me, “Yes, we adjust our speech to make them more comfortable. We’re not really trained to do it, but we just learn what makes them comfortable. Look, we even list the [Chinese currency] price on all the items” (Interview, 5 July 2012). Another Taiwanese tour guide I interviewed at Taipei 101 explained that he consciously modifies his speech to avoid language that suggests that Taiwan is politically independent, even when tourists asked about political differences. He did this, he said, in order to keep his work day smooth and enhance guest satisfaction (Interview, 5 July 2012).

Other tourism professionals confirmed that they alter their language largely in order to reduce the possibility of tension. One tour guide, Howard, told me how he, as well as his colleagues, will often use PRC euphemisms to refer to Taiwanese political institutions. For example, he sometimes refers to the “Presidential Office (zongtongfu, 總統府) as the

“Taiwanese Leader’s Office” (Taiwan lingdaoren bangongshi, 台灣領導人辦公室), which is the expression used in PRC media. However, while accompanying Howard and a small group from

Shanghai on a two-day tour of Taipei in July 2012, I observed inconsistent usage of such euphemisms. Sometimes, Howard would compare Taiwan with “China proper” (neidi, 內地), which is a politically acceptable term for comparison. Sometimes, however, he would compare

Taiwan with “China” (Zhongguo, 中國), something quite common for a Taiwanese to say, but

131 likely to get one into trouble with a PRC citizen who believes that Taiwan is part of China. In the recreational context of the tour and the rapport that Howard had already developed with his guests, this slip was not mentioned out loud by the tourists.

It should be noted that all working Taiwanese tour guides I interviewed, as well as the heads of their trade industry association, confirmed that they did not receive any written instructions or explicit training for “politically correct” language or historical narration of

Taiwan specifically designed for PRC tourists. All of these adjustments are informal and therefore inconsistent and partial. I frequently heard other Taiwanese speakers slipping and using expressions that predate the arrival of PRC tourists and may be potentially politically provocative for them. For example, the indigenous-attired store hostess from Sun Moon Lake referred to her health-enhancing fungal products as “National treasures of Taiwan”. Her language, which implied that Taiwan was a nation or country, could have provoked a heated dispute in less regulated circumstances.

To me, PRC tourists often referred to Taiwan as “Taiwan region” (diqu, 地區) or

“Taiwan Island,” as it’s often named in PRC public discourse, to emphasize their feeling that

Taiwan is a part of China, or to at least express a kind of PRC territorial “political correctness”.

Indeed, the same woman from Anhui who had said “no difference… same race, same culture,” likewise used the expression “Taiwan region”, and then waved her finger while announcing to me in front of her companions, “Anyway, this [Taiwan] is our national territory (guotu, 國土)!”

When I asked for elaboration on her opinion about national sovereignty, she said, “We are just commoners (laobaixing, 來百姓) and don’t want to talk politics,” despite having initiated the issue, and having clearly stated her territorial ideology.

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Just what kind of a part of China is Taiwan said to be, and by whom? Within China,

Taiwan is represented as a province (sheng, 省) of China on every map produced in the PRC and on the PRC passport. This PRC discourse dovetails conveniently with ROC designations and practice established by the KMT. Despite the fact that a growing majority of Taiwanese does not identify Taiwan as a province of China, this provincial terminology still permeates both administrative and popular language within Taiwan. For example, “Taiwan Province” still appears as a territorial designation on vehicle license plates. “Province” circulates further in the common Chinese-language spoken and written terms for “Taiwanese” (benshengren, for this province people, 本省人) and Taiwan-resident “mainlanders” (waishengren, for outside province people, 外省人).

Yet, it is the very precariousness of Taiwan’s (non)status as a Chinese province that compels the Chinese nationalist to insist on it, especially when the existence of an ideological consensus among speakers is in question. A simple anecdote related by a University graduate student and frequent visitor to Taiwan helps illustrate this point: The professor of his international Chinese-language class on Chinese politics insisted that all students refer to Taiwan as Taiwan Island, Taiwan province, or Taiwan region, but never simply as Taiwan. The presence of international students in the classroom raised the stakes and standards for the enforcement of this linguistic tactic, which was not employed as vigorously even for Hong Kong or Macau, let alone , and was utterly needless in the case of more “central” provinces like

(Interview, 20 January 2016). In my own case, my application for affiliation as a researcher at a social science institute to conduct Taiwan-related fieldwork within China was rejected because, in the words of the institute’s staff, it involved the “Taiwan problem” (Taiwan wenti, 台灣問題).

It bears repeating that in this particular expression, in common use within the Chinese academic

133 and public intellectual spheres, Taiwan isn’t just territorialized as a region or a province, but as a problem to be solved.

4.9 The life and virtual worlds of a non-Chinese Taiwan

Despite the argument I’ve made in this section, the sense of being in China was often undermined not only by different political terminology and bounds of acceptable public speech, but by other mundane experiential differences. Some of the key words used by most tourists in describing Taiwanese people and places include: Quiet, civilized (wenming, 文明), hygienic

(weisheng, 衛生), and warm (reqing, 熱情), especially in contrast to mainland China. While these keywords will receive more detailed treatment in Chapter Six’s account of independent tourism, in the following section, I would instead here like to briefly introduce certain sensory qualities of both embodied and virtual spaces that produce a sense of difference.

Taiwan’s relatively quiet, relaxed environment produces a distinct experience from most

Chinese cities. People speak at a lower volume. The accent is distinctive, “soft” (rou, 柔) or even

“cute” (ke’ai, 可愛), in the words of many tourists. Cars do not beep their horns as frequently.

People step outside of public spaces when they want to use mobile phones. Visually, there are no red banners or wall displays stenciled with Chinese Communist slogans. There are no public campaigns advocating for “harmony” (hexie, 和諧) or “civilized” behavior, apart from occasional reminders for subway riders to give up their seat to the elderly, pregnant, or disabled.

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Taiwan’s online and mass media spaces also present the possibility of ideological disruption. With a plethora of political-themed talk shows, paparazzi-style reporters, and access to uncensored international news networks, Taiwan’s cable TV offerings stimulate a sense of possibility and excitement for tourists. Not only are tourists quick to mention this in interviews, but many tour guides, as well as Taiwanese hosts of visiting friends or colleagues mention that tourists, instead of going out for a night on the town, find Taiwan’s talk and news shows, with their satirical take-downs of political figures and celebrities, at least as enticing. Matching the absence of patriotic slogans in the physical landscape, there are also no state-sponsored song- and-dance videos promoting Taiwan’s political leaders (in China, videos of unelected leaders and singing masses are often used as video filler). If tourists tire of Taiwanese domestic TV (as happened to my group travel companions, discussed in the next chapter), they can freely tune in to more familiar news from the PRC’s or Hong Kong’s Phoenix TV.

Such access is not reciprocated within the PRC, where Taiwanese television news and even

Hong Kong radio is blocked.

Taiwan’s internet is uncensored and unfiltered, and, in theory if not in common practice, tourists are free to search for terms that are forbidden or blocked in China, including “Falun

Gong,” “the Dalai Lama,” and so on. Further disrupting the mediascape in a more tangible way,

Taiwan’s bookstores, including the landmark 24-hour , also contain a variety of publications banned or unavailable in the mainland. These include books that are critical of the

CCP, present alternative histories of the PRC, and advocate for Taiwan independence. Eslite and other bookstores also feature live speakers on topics that may be forbidden in the PRC, including dissident political opinions, radical art, and social movements. One young tourist from Shanghai,

135 to be introduced in Chapter 6, had a self-described “transformative experience” while listening to such a talk about dissident artist, Ai Weiwei, by a visiting Hong Kong professor at Eslite.

Of all of the particular places discussed in this chapter’s “itinerary,” the aboriginal town of Dulan stands out as the most heterogeneous, mixed, and uncontrolled. For these and other reasons, it was also identified by independent Chinese tourists as being distinctively Taiwanese.

Reasons for this included cultural and sub-cultural visuality, including the political. Not only aboriginal motifs, but campaign paraphernalia from Taiwan’s long-running, grassroots “No

Nukes” movement pervades the bohemian café and arts studio spaces of the town. Apart from the Water Running Up attraction, there are no areas with large tour groups or buses, and there are few other Chinese tourists in the area. Tourists who spend more than a few hours here walk away with a sense of a different experience of Taiwan.

4.10 Conclusion

Taiwan’s mix of tourist sites simultaneously trumpet, question, critique, and re-interpret their Chinese immigrant and colonial history. This heterotopian mix presents a kind of territorial

Rohrshach test. The ROC and Taiwan’s own ambiguous national-territorial presentation, coupled with the PRC’s rigid claims of sovereignty over Taiwan, enables a kind of discursive overlap or multiplicity of sovereign claims and effects. Some sites, such as the National Palace Museum, especially while administered under the Ma administration, provide a less ambiguous presentation of Taiwan’s place in the mainstream of Chinese civilization. Others, like Dulan, present the opportunity for the perception of a more distinct kind of Taiwanese subjectivity for

136 those independent tourists who have the time and inclination to seek it out. In some cases, whether or not tourists want to seek out a distinct kind of sensibility, it comes to them anyway.

For example, when anti-CCP Falun Gong demonstrators, pro-PRC antagonists, and pro-Taiwan independence activists coalesce around a symbol of Taiwan’s modernity such as Taipei 101,

Chinese tourists and Taiwanese locals cannot escape their engagements as both performers and audience in the nascent nation-state theater of contemporary Taiwan.

Connecting these territorial representations and performances, the spatio-temporal structure of the tour—the curation of places and timing of touring, eating, and shopping in a register familiar to Chinese domestic group tourists—will turn out to be an important determinant of the tourist perception of Taiwan as a part of China. This includes the public

“scenic spots” as well as the more private spaces of the tour. As I will discuss in the following chapter, the amount and quality of time spent in less-seen, quasi-enclavic spaces of the tour bus interior and group tourist restaurant is as crucial to the territorial imagination of Taiwan as its landmarks. There are, to be sure, deviations from the norm, especially among independent tourists visiting less enclavic spaces. Furthermore, the relative openness of television and online spaces provides further disruption to pre-existing territorial ideologies.

The variation in site and tour management, especially between group and independent tourist curation and control, as well as the accessibility of alternative narratives in mass and social media make Taiwan a kind of territorial Rohrshach test for tourists traveling through spaces with the hallmarks of heterotopia. The next two chapters will discuss group and independent tourism in more ethnographic depth to tease out factors that produce particular territorializing narratives.

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Chapter 5

Ethnography and analysis of a Chinese group tour of Taiwan, August 2014

This chapter is an ethnographic account and analysis of an eight-day Chinese group tour of Taiwan in August 2014. It begins with a discussion of the booking procedure, group structure and itinerary. It continues with a discussion my unusual positionality as a foreign national participant-observer on this group tour. The middle part of the chapter is a day-by-day account of the goings-on of the tour, including site visitation, hotel stays, restaurant experiences, and socializing between group members. This fine level of detail is included to support the following analysis of the dominant political narratives of the tour guide commentary, the economic strategies and patronage networks of travel agency partners, and the intra-group dynamics that partially determined the tourists’ experience of Taiwan. In sum, I conclude that the spatial and temporal structure of this group tour successfully reproduced the effect of being in China, preventing substantive disruption to the ideologies produced by the Chinese tourists’ pre-trip territorial socialization.

As a typical low-to-mid budget tour, at US$900 including round-trip flight tickets from

Shanghai Pudong to Taiwan Taoyuan airports, seven nights of hotel accommodation, most meals, and mandatory shopping trips, this tour was selected precisely for its banal,

138 unexceptional, mass market qualities. By walking into a Shanghai brick and mortar travel agency office, I inquired, booked, paid, received pre-trip documentation, and began the tour in nearly the same manner as a Chinese national. The only major difference was that my US passport allowed me to enter Taiwan without a visa, and I therefore had no need (and was anyway ineligible) to apply for the special travel permits used by my fellow tourists. Also, several Shanghai travel agencies rejected my initial inquiry, maintaining that they only operated tours to Taiwan for

Chinese nationals or their spouses, and refused to explain the legal or operational rationale for this exclusion. The front desk staff simply told me that it was against the rules, and would not provide any documentation to explain or legitimize the stated policy. The agency I finally booked with, China Travel Service (Shanghai), had no such regulation, and was unable to answer whether or not the other agencies refused me for legal, regulatory or other reasons.

Joining this tour allowed me to observe the interaction between tourists, and between the guide and the tourists. It provided a window not into MacCannell’s so-called backstage

(MacCannell 1976), the supposed real space or authentic culture behind a tourist site, but into the

“backstage” of the opaquely packaged, routed, and financed cross-Strait tourism economy. As a fellow tourist-participant, this gave me insight into the cultural productions and territorial socialization of tourists and toured.

But first, a word about my positionality, related via an anecdote from the beginning of the tour. “You’re the first foreigner I’ve ever spoken with,” said my trip roommate, Sun, as we buckled our seatbelts on the China Eastern departure from Shanghai Pudong to Taoyuan. This was true not only for Sun, but for his 4 colleagues, all of whom were from rural northern Jiangsu province and spoke Subei dialect together. I was also the first non-Chinese tourist my tour director and guide had ever hosted. As an American, I was presumed to have particular opinions

139 and biases about China, Taiwan, and global geopolitics, as well as distinct dietary and lifestyle preferences. While they all said that my presence made the tour a more interesting and unusual experience, it could not help but also slightly affect its conduct. As I will describe below, the guide occasionally commented on or tempered his more extreme anti-Japanese statements after noticing my gaze. He also had to quickly take the time at nearly every business we visited to mention that I spoke Chinese and that staff “should treat the foreigner as if he was Chinese”.

This raised a few questions and comical responses as, apart from my non-phenotypically Chinese appearance, my spoken Mandarin also carries a slight Taiwanese accent

While making myself invisible was of course impossible, and I did have to answer a battery of typical questions in which I was assumed to represent and speak for all of “America,” I asked few questions throughout the tour, attempting to not draw additional attention to my

“foreignness”. Instead, I attempted to observe guide, tourist, and local interactions at a distance that skirted the liminal space between insider/outsider and Chinese/Taiwanese/foreigner, while taking notes on my mobile phone or tablet in an unobtrusive, unobvious way. Given the high frequency of phone use and photo-taking among tourists, this note-taking method was largely ignored by my interlocutors.

After narrating the basic experience of the tour, I will analyze and elaborate on several inter-related themes: The Taiwanese guide’s partial glosses of Taiwanese history, his tactical anti-Japanese racism, the tactical use of ethno-political language and unification narratives to both cater to guests and stimulate spending, questionable examples of political party and tourism industry collusion, and tourist interaction with and around Falun Gong and other dissident groups. Finally, I will discuss how the industry’s structuring of time, space, and capital effectively performs Taiwan as a part of China.

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Like any ethnographic recounting, this is certainly a partial account. The bulk of communication occurred in Mandarin, a language with which I am comfortable, but not all conversation was legible. Like the tour guide and driver, I do not speak Subei dialect, the primary language of one segment of our group, and was unable to understand or participate in their private conversations. I understand more Hoklo Taiwanese than the tourists did, but was still only able to guess at much of the content of the conversations between the guide, driver, and some other Taiwanese interlocutors. I have worked in the tourist industry in China myself and am attentive to the complicated business and personal relationships between guides, drivers, agencies, and vendors, including commissions, sideline sales businesses, and other gray market practices—but as a tourist on this tour, I could only ask a limited number of questions in an attempt to sketch the contours of these murky and submerged business circuits, without provoking suspicion or resentment from my interlocutors.

Even at its most banal, rote, and tedious, this tourist experience, like any, was semiotically and sensorily saturated (Crouch and Desforges 2003; Gibson 2009). A written account cannot completely convey the rich sights, sounds, smells, and textures of a site. It cannot capture how the details of dress, accent, or bodily movement reveal and produce and difference. Apart from these modal limits of written documentary methodology, there are only so many details that can fit into a chapter of finite length. As a researcher primarily interested in the cultural politics of the tourist encounter, my written notes and analysis focus more on the territorializing language and practices of tourism, rather than, for example, operational or guest satisfaction, details that may be of more interest for a destination marketer.

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5.1 Itinerary as both product and performative script of Taiwan as a Chinese tourist space

I do not discuss the written tour itinerary in the ethnographic account below for good reason—it was hardly noticed by our group. We did not receive a second copy upon arrival in

Taiwan. Although I carried the printed tour itinerary document that was provided by the agency for my review prior to the trip and distributed upon receipt of payment, at no point during the trip did I observe any tourist reviewing this document. Choosing not to check the itinerary’s terse lists of sites and meals and terms and conditions against what was actually provided upon the tour, this group was largely content to follow directions from the guide without reference to our contract with his company. This corresponded with a general emphasis on the “convenience” of the group tour. As my roommate, Sun, had observed, “I'd still rather go with a group. There's no need to think about where to stay or eat. It's easier.”

Yet despite the itinerary’s apparent invisibility in our particular group, it had served many key functions—it was an advertisement, designed to sell a tour. It was an informational document, designed to provide background on a destination to a prospective or current tourist. It was a legal contract, designed to clarify the rights, responsibilities, and obligations of the tourist and travel agency. Most importantly, it was the key to the guide’s toolkit, designed to structure and shape daily operations and tourist experience. Our tour itinerary, in other words, was a contingent product of negotiation between a variety of actors—a travel agency, a local or ground handler, and the immigration, tourism, and other relevant agencies of a sending and receiving regions. The itinerary was also a script that allows a guide to perform a destination within certain spatial and

142 temporal constraints, while being flexible enough to allow for improvisation and variation depending on environmental and other unpredictable conditions. It was, in the words of Ning

Wang, a “temporal-spatial carrier[s] for tourist experience…” (Wang 2006, 66)

Our particular itinerary, stamped with the imprimatur of CITS Shanghai, structurally differed little from domestic Chinese itineraries, apart from its carefully-worded mention of

Taiwan’s different travel permit regimes, and its explicit warning against participating in political activities or appearing on local TV news. Apart from this, it also differed little from domestic itineraries within Taiwan, except for its use of simplified characters and its use of territorial designations commonly used in China. In particular, it did not refer to Taiwan as the

Republic of China.

Our itinerary divided the trip into eight days, specified the names of the sites to be seen on particular days in a mostly-fulfilled temporal sequence connected via a “dash”. In accordance with the new Chinese tourism law of 2013, it explicitly labeled shopping trips up to the permitted limit of six total, without providing the actual names of the stores. The less obvious shopping stops, such as the tea shop in Alishan and the so-called Teresa Teng Memorial Museum, were labeled as “lunch” and “museum” sites. Also, it did not specify the names of hotels and only loosely specified residential locations (variously, counties, towns, or regions), allowing the ground handler maximum flexibility in choice of hotels.

More than in its ability to name sites and territories, a nominal capacity little noticed by this group, our itinerary’s power articulated in its intrinsic division of Taiwan into a space of discrete, consumable sites and shops, connected to each other via a transportation infrastructure of rest stops, highways, and our own private coach. The itinerary, as both reflection and determinant of our destination, not only projected Taiwan’s sensuous space into a flat physical document, but

143 also transformed Taiwan’s polysemic multiplicity into a tightly bounded series of “scenic spots”

(Nyíri 2006) connected via a spatial topology and temporal sequence familiar to tourists within mainland China.

Augmented by the tour guide’s narration and the tour operator’s choice of sites, CITS’ itinerary thus became the outline of a script with which Taiwan could be performed as a touristic part of China. But as much as the structure of the itinerary determined the operation of the tour, its gaps and vagaries allowed guide and ground handler to select sites that perform a very peculiar rendition of Taiwan as a divided part of China. It also enabled the ground handler to direct tourists’ economic power into very particular circuits of Taiwan’s political economy in which the KMT and affiliated private business groups combined profit and political motives, enriching each other while collaborating in the Chinese national-territorial project.

5.2 The management structure of the tour

The tour group, marketed and sold by China Travel Service (Shanghai) and operated by

Huahao, a company incorporated in Kaohsiung, was composed of two contingents: A family of four from a Shanghai suburb, and a group of five interior construction workers originally from northern Jiangsu province3. The family of four consisted of a 32 year-old woman, Yiqing4, with a

9 year-old daughter and 6 year-old son, and her mother-in-law, who preferred to speak in

3 I will refer to them as T2 through T5, apart from my roommate, “Sun”. 4 This and all other names in this chapter have been changed.

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Shanghainese and interacted little with anyone outside her family. The construction workers spoke in Subei language with each other and Mandarin with everyone else. They worked for a

Taiwanese-owned company in Shanghai, and Sun explained that their boss was sending them on this trip both as an incentive for good job performance and also to help give them some more context regarding their company. Apart from vocational and technical training, no one in the group had a post-secondary liberal arts education.

The tour director was Shanghainese, 40 years old, and had been to Taiwan approximately

50 times. An English speaker, he also frequently led tours to Europe and North America. The local tour guide was an ex-military officer from Tainan, a 50 year-old Taiwanese (benshengren who usually spoke Hoklo Taiwanese with the driver and other older locals, and Mandarin with me and the guests. He had worked as a tour guide for three years, exclusively for Chinese guests.

The driver hailed from , an industrial port town on the northern tip of Taiwan, and had driven commercial trucks prior to joining the rapidly expanding China-oriented tourism industry in 2009.

5.3 Chronological account of the tour

Day 1

Our tour began inauspiciously at the Shanghai Pudong airport, with the tour director over half an hour late to the meeting point printed in the agency’s booking confirmation. After he arrived and claimed he had been delayed by a traffic accident, he showed little interest in

145 socializing with the guests, and after ensuring that our documents were in order, sat, read, and talked on his mobile phone as we waited to board. This allowed me to ask Yiqing what she most looked forward to. “The food, the night markets, and the bok choy jade piece at the National

Palace Museum. But I guess I’m really just out to take the kids somewhere.”

On the plane, I sat next to Sun, who told me how I am the first foreigner he’s ever been in such close proximity with, and who was to be my roommate for the next 7 nights. We small- talked about life in America and China. This was his first trip outside the mainland. He explained to me, “I think Taiwan is more democratic and civilized... I work for a Taiwanese owned company. This is sort of a reward for us, from our manager, who wanted us to see Taiwan. At first he'd wanted us to just come here independently but that wasn't allowed because of where we’re from [Subei], so we had to join a group.”

After we landed, as we entered the general immigration line with several hundred other

Chinese tourists, the tour director reminded the group to take good care of the Taiwan entry permit, which he referred to as a “visa” (qianzheng, 簽證). T3, one of Sun’s colleagues noted the image of the flag of the Republic of China on the top of the permit. “Is that Taiwan’s national flag (guoqi, 國旗)?” he asked. “What national flag?” T5 replied, in a tone that suggested he disapproved of the use of the term, “national flag”. Yiqing’s son asked, “Mom, why do we need this for Taiwan?” He received no answer.

We cleared customs and were met by our guide, Jerry. He led us to the coach and distributed maps of Taiwan produced by the Tourism Bureau and labeled in simplified Chinese.

“Take it, you can keep it as your first souvenir!” Jerry said. Sun observed, “Wow, these maps were made especially for us.” Jerry took the microphone and formally began his performance as

146 tour guide: “How should I address you? Some are from Shanghai, some from Jiangsu?” He glanced briefly at me with raised eyebrows, and then continued, “I guess I’ll call you our

Jiangnan [Southern Jiangsu] VIPs! Welcome to Taiwan, the treasured island (baodao, 寶島)!”

He bowed and said “Thank you” in Taiwanese-accented Shanghainese. I politely clapped along with the other Jiangnan VIPs.

His introduction for our first site for the next day, the Chung Tai Monastery in central

Taiwan, revealed his strategy for handling the sovereignty question. “Our former premier

(Women shangren de zongli, 我們上任的總理), Wen Jiabao, had said he wanted to go to Chung

Tai and Alishan. But Taiwan and the mainland haven’t unified yet, so how could he come here?

Well, he couldn’t, so you come earlier for him instead.” This quickly established two things:

One, his avowed support for the political unification of Taiwan and mainland China, and Two, he, despite being a retired ROC soldier, could depict former PRC premier Wen Jiabao as “our” premier, at least when speaking with Chinese tourists.

As we settled into the drive, he played an orientation video produced by the Taiwan

Tourism Bureau and designed for Chinese tourists. It featured a lively young woman with a prominent Taiwanese accent instructing a man in a blue bear suit on how to behave in Taiwan, as well as iconic images of the National Palace Museum and Sun Moon Lake. The key take- aways: Don't litter, don’t spit, don’t talk loudly, don’t smoke indoors. Your tour guide shouldn’t force you to shop. Pay attention to food product ingredients and price labels. Taiwan uses New

Taiwan , not Renminbi. Chinese Union Pay credit cards are increasingly accepted. Buy certified goods. The blue bear, it turned out, was a quick learner and went to correct other tourists who were doing unacceptable things. A similar role-playing panda had also been used in tourist educational video produced by China Central Television in 2014, that proved

147 controversial within China for its overt discussion of tourist misbehavior (“besmirches the

Chinese public,” said a blogger), and even for “smearing pandas” by associating them with “low- class tourists” (Wong 2014).

The video ended, and as we approached our suburban mid-range hotel, Jerry finished his general orientation: “Taiwan is a free democratic society, so people may express different opinions. You may see some protesters here and there. But me, I like the warmth of the people here (renqingwei, 人情味) and the food and the sites. As for the food, Old Chiang [Kai-shek] brought 2 million mainlanders with him and lots of food styles, but they’ve since been adjusted to Taiwanese tastes. If the food is not to your liking, let me know. I’ll talk later a lot about differences between the mainland and Taiwan. I’ve been there twice, to Shanghai and

Guangdong.”

Upon arrival at the hotel, the tour director and guide handed out room keys and reminded us not to smoke inside the building. I had not paid extra to have a private room, reasoning that not only was I a thrifty grad student, but that sharing a room would provide more ethnographic data. A quick collective decision had to be made about which of the five construction workers would share a twin room with me. Having already built up a rapport while setting next to me on the plane, Sun became the default choice of roommate and stayed with me for the duration of the trip.

Day Two

Sun’s colleagues,T2 and T3, entered the room after the 7am wake-up call and turned on the TV and channel flipped to a Taiwanese political talk show. Chiu Yi, a pan-blue legislator, was discussing the arrest of PRC Politburo member Zhou Yongkang, who was the highest profile

148 target-to-date of ’s anti-corruption drive. His arrest had been reported in China, but the tourists expressed surprise and amazement at the personal details being discussed on Taiwanese

TV, including Zhou’s alleged three mistresses.

After our buffet breakfast, we boarded the coach to depart to Chung Tai Monastery, Wen

Jiabao’s fantasy destination. Our guide continued his cultural/political introduction to Taiwan:

“Taiwan is a democratic place, so we'll see different groups, like Falun Gong. Falun Gong practices are OK, but their leader, Li Hongzhi told people the Communist Party is evil. This is not so good. Don't take their stuff, because you'll have trouble when you return. Even their pens have their name and information. Be careful. They'll use newspapers, whatever, to tell you to leave the party. Pay no attention.” He continued his discussion of differences with China by his first reference to Japan, an apparition that would become central to his narrative of Taiwan:

“Look out the window. We'll see more Japanese cars here. It’s not because we like Japan, but because they have higher fuel efficiency.”

He then used “separation” from China to discuss “unification” with it: “There’s been 60- something years of separation between Taiwan and the mainland. I’ll play you some videos to talk about Chiang Kai-shek and other things. These are of course from a Taiwanese perspective.

As a kid, I learned that our mainland compatriots were poor and needed rescuing. We learned that we need to unite to be strong. We don't want to be like or ally with the Philippines or Japan or those places.” The tourists nodded, an apparent expression agreement and support.

He continued, “Now, 70 percent of people want to keep the status quo, not because they don't want to unite, but because they're worried about being controlled too strictly (bei guan de tai yange, 被管得太嚴格). But naturally, things will improve. We are ethnic brothers (xiongdi

149 minzu, 兄弟民族). Of course there are some people who disagree, and there are protests, like the

Sunflower Movement against the Services Trade Pact. Well, the first person to protest that was an NTU professor who is also a Falun Gong adherent. You know, Taiwan is just too democratic.”

One of the construction workers, T4, asked why former president Lee Teng-hui supports

Japan’s territorial claims to the Senkaku (Diaoyu) islands, which are also claimed by the ROC and the PRC. The guide replied, “People say he's a Japanese inside. His grandfather was a policeman under the colonial regime. It’s better not to say too much, but... Taiwan is too democratic.”

T4 asked again, “Why does Lee care so much? He’s so old and still on TV. I can’t figure it out” (zhende xiang bu tong, 真的想不通).The guide replied with enough information to indicate he’d heard the question, and then used it to change the subject: “He’s got Japanese influence, yes, but he has an agricultural economics PhD. He still made a contribution to our country and its agriculture. You know, Taiwanese fruit is good. You should buy some while you’re here, but not too much that it goes bad.”

The guide then introduced the video he would play next about Chiang Kai-shek, reminding us that it was from a “Taiwanese” perspective, so it might differ from the official narrative in mainland China. The documentary focused mostly on Chiang’s family background in China, the anti-Japanese war, and 1950s land reform and later industrialization in Taiwan. It mostly elided state violence under Chiang’s rule, including the 228 incident, the White Terror, and other well-documented incidents from martial law-era Taiwan that still haunt the contemporary collective memory.

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After the video ended, we arrived for lunch in a cavernous, mostly empty Taiwan-themed restaurant in a non-descript roadside location on the way to Chung Tai Temple. The guide seated us at our tables before eating separately with the driver. At the table, the Jiangnan VIPs asked me and each other how we should address the restaurant staff. “Should we call them servers

(fuwuyuan, 服務員) or ‘Miss’ (xiaojie, 小姐)?” a common and neutral term in Taiwan, but a term sometimes used to refer to sex workers in the PRC.

After lunch, we arrived at Chung Tai Temple, a massive complex that also receives

Chinese tourists for paid meditation and spiritual retreats. With only one hour allotted to visit the halls and grounds, the guide focused particularly on one installation in the main plaza, the

Tongyuan Bridge, made of bronze and designed to represent the unity of China and Taiwan. In

Chinese, tong is homophonous with the words for sameness (同), unity (統) and bronze (銅), while yuan (源) means origin. The guide explained, “Taiwan, mainland China: Same race, same origin” (Tongzhong, tongyuan, 同種同源). The plaque on the bridge, dedicated jointly in 2006 by Chung Tai Temple and Lingyin Temple in Hangzhou, confirmed his interpretation: “The two temples have the same origin. The same dharma, the same origin of culture on both sides of the straight are integrated and can’t be divided… true peace and blessings for people on both sides of the Strait” (liang si tong yuan, tong fa tong yuan liang an wenhua hurong bu du… chengwei liang an renmin heping qifu, 兩寺同源 同法同源兩岸文化互融不獨。。。誠為兩岸人民和平

祈福).

The guide pointed to a nearby sculpture, “This marble is from .” A tourist asked,

“Oh, it’s imported (jinkou de, 進口的)?” The guide replied, “Imported? No, this, well it’s all one

China (dou shi yi ge Zhongguo, 都是一個中國)! Well, I guess you can still say it’s imported for

151 now because it has to go through Customs.” The guide made another comparison, “Our

Buddhism is more legitimate. In the mainland, you have monks who wear western clothes and drive BMWs to temple, then change into robes for the day, then leave to drink. Ours are real.

They're vegetarian too.”

After 40 minutes of free time to walk the manicured grounds and shop for temple goods, we boarded the coach and departed for the iconic Sun Moon Lake, the site depicted on the

Chinese passport page for Taiwan. Both the guide and the video he played, produced by the local tourism administration, recited quotes about the lake from a Qing-era poet in 1821. It also noted the continuing presence of Taiwan’s smallest registered aboriginal tribe, the Thao people, who viewed Sun Moon Lake as a sacred site.

We arrived at the lake, and after passing through crowds to board our boat tour, T2 said to the guide, “This is like mainland China. I don't really feel like I've left.” The guide replied,

“Well, this is a tourist destination. If you go to more out of the way places, you'll observe some differences.” T3 continued the conversation, “Everything here is condensed. It’s not as big or expansive as the mainland.” I asked T3 what he’d heard about Taiwan or Sun Moon Lake. He answered, “We read about this and Alishan growing up. Perhaps the political perspectives are different but the place descriptions were pretty neutral.”

After our boat docked at a nearby site, the guide gestured to several costumed performers on a stage nearby. “You can listen to High Mountain Tribal People (gaoshanzu, 高山族) music and buy their CDs (guangpan, 光盤).” His use of the term Gaoshanzu, an official PRC ethnic designation, otherwise unheard in Taiwan, that collapses Taiwan’s many indigenous groups into one “High Mountain” ethnicity (as Taiwan’s now-outre term, shandi ren, 山地人, used to) will

152 be discussed in some detail later. His use of guangpan for CD, common in the PRC, instead of guangdie, used in Taiwan, was notable for its mainland diction, even if it was less ideologically- charged than Gaoshanzu.

As we walked towards the “restaurant,” which was an unmarked room in a basement adjacent to a parking lot, he gestured towards sugar cane drink vendors. “That’s white sugar cane. It was used to produce sugar when the Japanese occupied Taiwan. They took our resources and treated us like a colony.” The parking lot’s bathroom had signs in simplified Chinese reminding guests to not litter in urinals. As we ate a mediocre dinner, the guests remarked that the lake was not as grand as they had expected.

On the way to our hotel in county, the guide explained the differences between

Taiwanese usage of the hotel words fandian (飯店) and jiudian (酒店). Fandian, literally “Rice

Place,” refers to hotels, while jiudian, commonly used for “hotel” in the PRC, refers to hostess clubs in Taiwan. His descriptions of jiudian were graphic, pitched in the construction worker guest register, and delivered without any apparent regard for the women and children on the coach. Continuing the bawdy theme, he gestured out the window to the neon-lit roadside stalls where provocatively dressed young women sold the stimulant, betelnut, and described it as a particularly Taiwanese health remedy. As we pulled over to the stall so he could demonstrate the purchasing process, he told the guests that they could sneak a photo if they liked. He completed his purchase and then played karaoke disc titled, “Good Sounds of China,” which the group seemed to enjoy.

After we checked into the hotel, upon questioning, the staff explained that it was owned by a Taiwanese designer with extensive business interests in China, and received 80-90% of its

153 bookings from Chinese tourists. Its hallway and interior signs were primarily printed in simplified Chinese, used officially in the mainland but not in Taiwan.

Day 3

This was the day for the second most well-known site in Taiwan, Alishan. We woke up at

7am eat breakfast, and board the coach up a winding mountain road only to arrive at our lunch site suspiciously early, at 11am. This entirely too-convenient timing allowed us time to “learn” about highly-priced “local” tea from costumed Tsou aboriginal people at a “cultural center” conveniently attached to the dining room. This stop, not listed as a shopping stop on our itinerary, allowed the company to skirt the legal cap on six shopping stops per trip. Upon my private query, the guide explained that this was technically legal because the site was attached to our dining establishment, and was therefore not a countable shopping trip.

This tea shop had certain exceptional qualities. A small bear was kept in a tiny cage in the parking lot as a tourist attraction. The owner claimed that it was a Formosan black bear, an iconic and endangered species which is illegal to keep in captivity without a special permit (I verified after the tour that it was in fact a Malaysian sun bear and therefore not subject to such strict regulation). The tea boxes were not only expensive, but they also featured a picture and personal endorsement of President and KMT chairman, Ma Ying-jeou. The interior of the shop also featured a large photo of Ma handshaking the owner of the company, who was also a KMT official.

Otherwise, the ethnic-themed tea experience was unexceptional, and could have taken place anywhere in China. Most tourists bought tea, bargaining down from the list price of 2800

New Taiwan Dollars (US$94) to 250 Renminbi (US$40). While the Tsou saleswomen focused

154 on the Chinese tourists, the boss of the restaurant attempted to sell me on not only the tea but the sex appeal of his staff: “I’ll throw in an Alishan girl if you buy some tea.” The remainder of his sales technique further pushed the limits of taste and will not be recounted here, but made clear that gender is an important determinant of tourist experience.

After lunch, we toured the forests of Alishan, which were filled with other Chinese tour groups. As our guide explained the history of Japanese train building and other infrastructural projects, he repeatedly referred to as “little Japanese devils” (xiao Riben guizi,

小日本鬼子). At one point, he caught my eye and asked me if I found that kind of language acceptable. I attempted to express indifference.

After an hour of walking a heavily traveled path, we re-boarded our coach and headed towards Kaohsiung. Our guide explained we would be visiting the Teresa Teng Memorial

Museum the following day, and played us a video of the late, popular singer. Repeating a cliché that relates these two personalities with the same last who achieved fame in both

Taiwan and China, he said, “The mainland has old Deng [Xiaoping], Taiwan has young Teng.”

This night was also our first night to visit one of Taiwan’s night markets, which, my companions confirmed, are as well-known in China as Alishan or Sun Moon Lake. As the guide introduced famous local foods, the driver yelled from the front, interjecting that most of the goods are made in mainland China. The guide agreed, and uses it as an occasion to praise China:

“Yes, that’s true, because the mainland is the world's industrial powerhouse."

For the first time since we arrived in Taiwan, the group broke up into two separate contingents, one fully unguided and responsible for finding their own way to the hotel: The family explored the night market and eats on their own, and the construction workers briefly left

155 the guide to meet and eat with colleagues from their Taiwanese parent company. I took the solo time to interview several food vendors to learn about the changing ecology of the Liuhe night market. Said one vendor: “The mainlanders don't like our stinky tofu. It's not black or stinky enough. They go for these seafood places because it's expensive for them in China. But all that seafood is from Thailand anyway. So a lot of the more traditional Taiwanese stalls have been disappearing. They're getting replaced. And our rent is going up... Fewer Taiwanese people come because the Chinese tourists are so noisy and they cut lines. Locals can't stand it.” A nearby mullet roe vendor repeated these claims in an interview twenty minutes later, but added that locals have shifted their timing and intentionally arrive at the night market later in the evening after the Chinese tourists return to their hotels. Indeed, the family and I arrived at our hotel at a fairly early 8:30pm, while the construction workers were still out with their colleagues.

When my roommate returned, he turned on local TV news, which had been reporting for days on a recent deadly gas explosion in Kaohsiung. He said, “Taiwanese news should be broader. Why don’t they give equal reportage to other places?” I ask him if mainland news gives broader coverage of events outside of China. He said, “Well, no, not really.”

Day Four

The day started with a trip to the seaside walkway at Xiziwan in Kaohsiung. It was an hour-long stop, although there were no suggested activities apart from taking photos of the ocean. The tourists expressed boredom, shopped in the 7-11 for 20 minutes, enjoyed the free air-conditioning and tried the patience of shop staff.

Our next stop was the Love River. We parked next to Kaohsiung’s small 228 Memorial

Park and walked through it on the way. Up to this point on the tour, the guide had not mentioned

156 anything about the 228 Incident, and he doesn’t take this opportunity either. As just the two of us walk in front of the rest of the group, I asked him why. He replied, “I don't introduce things like

228 to guests from the Interior (guonei keren, 國內客人) because it's political, and it's something their people did when they came here. I don’t like to talk politics while on tour anyway.”

We walked along the boardwalk as the guide introduced the Love River. He criticized the

DPP, which has held the Kaohsiung mayor seat since 1998, for insufficiently cleaning up the waterway (he did not mention that the river was in worse condition before the DPP inherited responsibility over it from the KMT). "Taiwan is too democratic, so we're not unified (tuanjie, 團

結) enough. Sometimes too much democracy is not a good thing... In the Mainland, if the government wants to move a path by a meter, it can just do it, it doesn't need to get everyone to sign." He claimed the river is in as bad shape as it was before. As we departed from the boardwalk, the construction workers’ Taiwanese colleagues drove up in a Prius to deliver a gift box of Taiwanese pastries as a follow-up to their meeting the previous night.

We then headed towards a “museum” dedicated for Teresa Teng. There were Falun Gong demonstrators even outside this small site. Before we got off the coach, the guide claimed that the site was operated by Teng’s family, funded from donations, and unsupported by the government, and so was therefore a bit shabby. After we got off the coach, we were all handed necklaces with the same number, 7, to wear during our visit. The other tour groups are wearing different number. There were in fact no actual personal items or artifacts of Teng in the

“museum”. The majority of the display items were reprinted photos.

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The commercial purpose of the “museum” becomes clear when we exited from the display area and entered into the adjacent shop space, which sold not only Teng music, but also more typical types of Taiwan-themed souvenirs. No photos were allowed in the store. The listed prices in Chinese currency were unusually high. I asked the staff about this—they explained that that is based on the from three years prior, as “it is too difficult to update the computers,” but that guests can pay in Taiwanese currency if they prefer. They then asked me nervously if I’m a reporter, while the guide talked to the cashier quietly. No one purchased anything, and we return our numbered visitor cards before heading to lunch at a chicken-themed restaurant.

Back on the coach, my roommate gestured towards a Taiwanese electronics retail chain outlet, 3C, and observed, “That electronic store is pretty small. I saw a car dealership under a corrugated iron roof. Mainlanders wouldn't trust a shop like that.” The guide replied, “We

Taiwanese just want a cheaper price, and get by on trust more.”

We arrived at Fo Guang Shan, a major Buddhist monastery and monument led by Master

Hsing Yun, originally from Nanjing, China, where his reflections are featured in a “National

Patriotic Education” museum dedicated to Japanese war atrocities. Fo Guang Shan has been the site of semi-official visits by PRC officials, and was proposed by KMT academic Charles Kao as a site for an ROC leader to sign a speculative future “peace treaty” with the PRC. The guide introduced the site, “Our China (Women Zhongguo, 我們中國) has some sacred mountains, E

Mountain, Hua Mountain, and so on, and this was patterned after that.” One of the construction workers, T4, says, “This site is grand, indeed.” As with Chungtai Monastery, there were a variety of shopping options on the monastery grounds.

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After Fo Guang Shan, we headed to Hengchun Old Town, another free site with little tourist-specific infrastructure. As we watched local kids play baseball, the guide slipped his territorial language for the first time, contrasting “China” and not “mainland China” with

Taiwan: "China beat us in baseball too. China's got a lot of people, more than we do in Taiwan.

So they've got a lot to select from." No one seemed to notice the difference in territorial terminology. We watched the kids hit a few more balls before he continued a few moments later,

“Taiwan’s economy is going nowhere because of political infighting. We're too democratic.

Also, labor is too expensive, so Taiwanese have gone to China to set up shop.”

Back on the coach, my roommate, Sun, said to the guide, “These tour routes are pretty similar to being in the mainland. It’s just that here we circle an island.” The guide nodded. After we checked in to the hotel in Checheng (listed in the itinerary as the more popular and famous site, Kenting, but actually 30 minutes away), Sun said to me privately, “Yes, this still feels like I haven't really left mainland China. And especially here in the south in this poorer, more rural place… It feels even more like the countryside where I'm from. I don't see much of a difference.”

He expressed concern that I wanted to go out alone for a walk: “I bet people here really aren’t used to seeing foreigners. They will probably stare at you.”

He continued analyzing the dynamics of the tour, “I could tell right away when we entered that lunch restaurant that everyone was from the mainland, but it's okay. I'd still rather go with a group. There's no need to think about where to stay or eat. It's easier. Our guide is good too, he doesn't force us to buy things. He even told us that fruit was overpriced at that rest stop.”

I took the opportunity to ask him his feelings about politics. He says, “I don't really care that much about Taiwan independence one way or the other because we're all Chinese anyway.

It's not like with the Japanese. Taiwanese should be free to choose. I mean, if your parent sends

159 you to another person to raise you, and then demands you back after you're grown up, is that fair? Well, I guess if pressed, I prefer unification. Why not? It would make everyone stronger. I think the US is in the way, they keep supporting these place, like... Vietnam... Philippines... To weaken China.” After showering, he turned on the TV and tuned into CCTV news instead of

Taiwanese programs, saying that he was bored of Taiwanese television.

Day Five

Today we rounded the southern tip of Taiwan and headed towards Taitung, on the east coast. On the coach, one of the tourists talked loudly on the phone with business associates calling from China. Others notice abundant Falun Gong billboards. Two of them read the slogans out loud in Mandarin and then discussed them briefly in Subei dialect while shaking their heads.

We stopped at several small, free scenic sites along the way. Before we disembarked to visit one of the sites, a lighthouse in Kenting, guide Jerry told us that he likes to visit a small seafood shop run by a Chinese immigrant woman, also the wife of a Taiwanese man, who had a large domesticated . We met there after visiting the lighthouse, and the guests expressed delight to meet another Chinese person. The conversation was brief, simple, and friendly, with her saying she enjoys life in Taiwan. Her shop, like all others at these sites, listed prices in

Chinese currency.

Falun Gong demonstrators were also present at all of these sites. At Maobitou, one of our stops, a construction worker took a free copy of Epoch Times, the Falun Gong newspaper. I also picked one up. The worker read his, and one of his colleagues later grabbed mine off of my coach seat later on and scanned through it.

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After five days of traveling together, small group tensions became evident. Several of the construction workers expressed irritation with one man’s continued loud phone conversations.

The two small Shanghainese children added to the cacophony. During one piercingly loud scream, two workers yelled in protest, “We’ve had enough!” The guide stepped in to mediate by using a uniquely cross-strait bogeyman tale. He said to the children with a winking smile, “When we get off the coach and Falun Gong sees you crying, they'll kidnap you!

With the mood tense, the guide continued to fill in the silence before re-tranquilizing the group with videos. He said, “On the last day, we'll go to the famous National Palace Museum, with the great treasures of 5,000 years of Chinese history. Dress a little more formally then. After all, there are foreign travelers there. It’s better to be dressed up a bit.” He then played a documentary produced by the trans-national Chinese language channel, Phoenix TV, about the memories of old KMT soldiers exiled in Taiwan. Sun, having seen the video before, tells me it is great.

Guide Jerry announced our arrival on the eastern, Pacific side of Taiwan.

“Is there an island over there?” T5 asked, pointing towards the sea.

“No. America is that way though, maybe,” said Jerry.

Sun asked me, “Want to go home?” He then asked, “The US is on the Pacific, right?”

“Yes, the west coast is,” I answered.

Sun asked, “There's another coast? What ocean is on that side? The Indian?”

After I used my mobile phone’s mapping application to help Sun see the outline and orientation of the Atlantic Ocean, he suddenly switched the topic to US electoral politics. He had heard that Hillary Clinton may run to succeed as president, and expressed

161 concern that she is anti-Chinese (paihua, 排華). He learned this, he said, by watching TV news and reading the newspaper.

At a fuel and fruit shopping stop, I asked the driver for his thoughts on this tour. He says,

“These tourists just want to see the so-called (suowei de, 所謂的) ‘Taiwan’. They've heard about it, it's been inaccessible for a while and now they can come. They don't really care about how they do it. At least not these ordinary ones.”

After passing the city of Taitung, we stopped at the free tourist attraction in Dulan, Water

Running Up, which features a simple optical illusion in which a small man-made stream appears to flow upwards against the direction of gravity. Two young Taiwanese women, independent tourists, took mobile phone videos of each other as the tourist kids ran in and out of the camera’s view. One of them said to the camera, "We're at Water Running Up. We rode an hour and a half just to get here and now we have to go back the same way. Just for this [she pointed at the site and shook her head]. Whatever, I'm at a loss for words (shayan, 傻眼). Oh, and yeah, there are a lot of Chinese tourists here.” They rolled their eyes at their cameras, finished filming, and walked away.

As we got back on the coach to head north from Water Running Up, Guide Jerry said,

“The hotels in the city are not very nice, so we've arranged one just a bit out of town.” The hotel turned out to be a large, aging complex in the quiet fishing harbor town of Chenggong, which is

40 km north from . Jerry set the next day’s departure time at 8am.

Day Six

In the morning in our guest room, Sun turns on the TV news and complains, “The news is all about Kaohsiung. There’s nothing about our Mainland.”

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“Should the news include the Mainland?” I asked.

“News should be international, without borders” Sun replied.

“Is your news borderless?” I asked.

“Well, no. What a contradiction,” Sun said.

We went downstairs to eat breakfast together. Sun observed tourists asking our guide some questions at a nearby table. “Everywhere we go on this tour, it’s all Mainlanders (dalu ren,

大陸人) all the way. I think we've seen these people before,” said Sun.

We boarded the coach and backtracked 40 km to Taitung for a visit to the “Red Coral

Museum,” which was listed as a shopping stop on our itinerary. Jerry explained that, “The wife of Chiang Kai-Shek, Soong Mei-ling, liked red coral... Taiwan produces 80 percent of the world's red coral. Red coral wards off evil and represents longevity... The emperors Qianlong and Kangxi also liked it. So did the empress dowager, Cixi... Soong Mei-ling lived to 106 years old, so you can see it has this function.” He then played a promotional video about red coral. T4 noticed that we were going back the way we came the day before, and complained quietly to his friends that this shopping trip is a waste of time that caused us to wake up too early.

We arrived at the “Red Coral Museum”, a large and poorly-maintained store featuring portraits of Soong Mei-ling. The construction workers were uninterested in making any purchases. Yiqing, the Shanghainese mother, bought a necklace for 1000RMB. “It’s not much money,” she told me.

As I waited outside the store, close to several Falun Gong demonstrators, the driver asked me, “Have you cursed at Falun Gong yet?”

“Why should I? They haven't bothered me. Have they bothered you?” I asked.

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“Yeah they bother me every day,” he said, and then yelled at them in Taiwanese.

Sun emerged from the store. Away from the driver, I asked him what he thought about the shop. “We've seen all this before in the Mainland and Hong Kong. So this kind of thing is familiar. Yes, Taiwan has scammers, too,” he says.

We boarded the coach and Jerry talked about old soldiers while we passed several veterans homes. “Chen Shui-bian cut all their benefits, so now they get by with money donated from KMT-run businesses.” He spoke about Chen’s administration, “that time,” in a noticeably

Mainland Chinese accent, saying na ge shihou instead of the more common Taiwanese nei ge shihou. T4 noticed the apparent affectation, and mockingly repeated it out loud to no one in particular, “Na ge shihou.” Jerry then put on a violent slapstick Chinese boxing film, “Long’s

Story”.

We traveled the distance between Taitung and Chenggong for the 3rd time before continuing north to Hualien. After the movie finished, Jerry introduced the region by noting that,

“Hualien has many ‘high mountain aborigines’ (gaoshan yuanzhumin, 高山原住民). Of the

500,000 total in Taiwan, the most numerous is the Amis, with 150,000 people. Some of them are pale and white (baibai de, 白白的), and very beautiful. Of course others are darker (heihei de,

黑黑的), too.”

We took a brief stop at a plaque marking the Tropic of Cancer. Before we got off the coach, Jerry let us know that it is a good site for photos, that we may see an aboriginal musical group with live performances and compact discs (guangpan, the Chinese term) for sale, and that we should keep our eyes out for an old mainland soldier collecting recycled goods in the area.

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After we returned to the coach, Jerry said that while , just north of

Hualien City and with a well-known scenic gorge, was on our itinerary, we may only be able to see the entrance of it due to a landslide up top and the likelihood of a traffic jam. Indeed, as we pulled into the park entrance, a long line of coaches came into view on the highway above. Jerry announced that instead of joining the crush, we should content ourselves to take photos by the small tourist shops alongside the adjacent river.

As a consolation stop, we visited a nearby rocky beach by an air force base. The beach was full of other Chinese tourists watching pilots practicing take-off and landing in old fighter jets purchased from US military vendors. T3 and T4 were familiar with these particular jet models, and expressed surprise at my lack of knowledge about military equipment. They and the tourists from many other groups busied themselves taking photos.

We returned to the outskirts of and stayed in a cavernous mid-range hotel that opened three years ago, according to the staff. As with most of our previous hotels, all guests were mainland Chinese and all indoor signage was in simplified characters.

Day Seven

This day started with a visit to a jade shop. On the coach, Jerry introduced jade’s long history in Chinese culture as a protective token of health and longevity and display of wealth and purity. He also mentioned its special role in mediating cross-Strait relations, as the material substance of gifts from pro-unification Taiwanese politicians to their mainland counterparts. The jade was symbolic not only for its intrinsic material properties, for its spatial dimensions and numerological properties. Jerry noted that in 2005, KMT Honorary Chairman Lien Chan gave a special jade vase to then-Chinese president, Hu Jintao. “It was 192 centimeters, one for ‘One

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China’, 92 for the 92 Consensus. Now it's in the Great Hall of the People. James Soong, another

Taiwanese politician and Lien’s running mate in 2004, gave rosestone (meiguishi, 玫瑰石) to Hu

Jintao on his visit, following Lien’s. Since Soong has Hunanese background, Hu had it put in the

Hunan museum.” After finishing his short speech, he played a video about Taiwan jade, with captions in simplified characters and a quasi-aboriginal techno-pop soundtrack.

After the video finished, he pointed out another group home for veterans and used it to introduce not just jade, but the particular store where we will buy it. “This company is KMT- run. Everyone likes to come here because 25 percent of the profit is used to support veterans.

Chen Shui-bian cut all their benefits, so life is hard for them. We also hope that you can get something that represents Taiwan, a nice memory, a good souvenir.”

We arrived at the entrance to the jade store, which also bills itself as the “ Jade

Museum” run by the Cross-Strait Corporation, a subsidiary of the KMT. The entrance featured photos of Chiang Kai-Shek, Chiang Ching-Kuo, Lien Chan and other KMT leaders, as well as images of Chinese leaders Deng Xiaoping and Hu Jintao. Jerry told us that we would spend an hour there, before he turned us over to the “guides” of the “museum”.

Our “guide,” wearing a microphone, confirmed Jerry’s story. “Everyone working here is

KMT, and this business is used to support soldiers. Me, I have this background, too. I'm the son of a soldier from Hunan,” he said.

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Figure 8: Visiting a KMT-owned jade "museum" store. Author photo.

He pointed to encased sample items in the entrance display area. “These are the styles that Lien Chan gave to Hu Jintao. You should consider taking a pair of vases (ping, 瓶) to support peaceful unification (heping tongyi, 和平統一),” emphasizing the homophonous word- play of ping for peace and vase. He walked us upstairs to a private room and gave a presentation on the provenance and varieties of their jade, using strobing lights and other special effects to attempt to prove purity and quality.

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After ten minutes of this, we were turned loose to browse rings, bracelets, necklaces, and assorted decorative items, but no one in my group bought anything. “This stuff is all fake. We’re so used to this from China. Who knows if they even use the money to support the veterans, anyway,” says T3 to me, after asking me if I’m buying anything. Answering my questions, three different shop staff confirm that they are all KMT members, and say that they were brought in to the store through friends or family.

After exiting the shop, I shared a juice with guide Jerry. He suddenly sang a rhyming song while shaking his head, “Get on the coach and sleep, get off the coach and pee, go home none the wiser (Shang che shuijiao, xia che niaoniao, hui jia shenme dou bu zhidao, 上車睡覺下

車尿尿，回家什麼都不知道).” I ask him to elaborate, and he said, “Some tourists like to say this rhyme, and also this one, too: I’d always regret not going to Taiwan, but going to Taiwan is something to always regret. (Bu qu Taiwan shi yibeizi de yihan, qu Taiwan yihan yibeizi 不去

台灣是一輩子的遺憾，去台灣遺憾一輩子).” This is a familiar line among jaded Chinese tourists, and not only used for Taiwan. I had heard it from five other group tourists while conducting interviews in Taiwan, but also while doing research in Shangri-La [Zhongdian] in

Yunnan province in 2011.

We returned to the coach and watched a music video of Taiwanese pop star, .

The guide then explained that the stretch of highway between Hualien and Su’ao, in adjacent

Yilan County, is dangerous and difficult, so we will take a train and the driver will meet us later.

Unsurprisingly, Falun Gong demonstrators were also present at the entrances and exits to both of these otherwise minor train stations.

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After returning to the coach, we took a brief trip to the Yehliu Geopark, a coastal site northeast of Taipei popular for its rock formations and inexpensive entrance ticket. After finishing at Yehliu, we entered Taipei city for our second shopping stop of the day, Vigor Kobo, a pineapple cake and delicacy specialist that is 25 percent owned by Chinese investors. Photos of former Taipei Mayor and KMT stalwart, Hau Lung-Bin, and of President Ma, were prominent above the cash registers.

Along the way to our third and final shopping destination, the Everrich Duty-Free flagship store, Jerry attempted to sell us the medicinal menthol cream he first introduced during our ride up to Alishan, and passed it around for further inspection. He said that it could be delivered to the group at our hotel. The guests helped themselves to some more of the cream but did not place any orders.

We were given 90 minutes to shop in the six-story Everrich complex. This privately-held group holds a near-monopoly on duty-free shopping outlets in Taiwan and notably does not offer commissions to tour companies and guides. Our group split into several parts. The Shanghainese family browsed the cosmetics and handbags areas, and the construction workers spent more time in the tobacco and liquor outlets. T3 bought an 850RMB bottle of Chabot XO Armagnac. “I’ve never had this before, but I guess it must be good because it has XO in the title,” he said.

Back on the coach, while moving away from but still in view of the Everrich traffic orbit,

Sun exclaimed, “Wow look at all these tourist buses! How can Taiwan still oppose the services trade agreement?” We headed to the Danshui boardwalk, a pedestrian area of food carts, inexpensive restaurants, and vendors, before checking into a hot springs hotel in the suburb of Beitou. Jerry did not mention that Beitou was first developed as a hot springs destination by Japanese colonial administrators.

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Sun joined his colleagues to take a taxi to the department store. They bought local condiments and snacks and carried them back in a taxi as gifts for friends and family back home. In our shared room, Sun summed up his Taiwan experience:

I used to think Taiwan was mysterious. Now I know what it's like, I'm no longer curious about it. It's not as developed as I thought… You know, it was one of the , like Hong Kong, Korea, Japan... But our city standard now is Shanghai, and I've now seen Taipei and Kaohsiung and they don't compare. But like I told you before, these smaller places, like around our hotel in these small towns, are nice and orderly. This is worth it for us to learn from. People's quality (suzhi, 素質), their etiquette (liyi, 禮儀)... These are good.

Day Eight

After a shared breakfast at the hot spring hotel, we boarded the coach for our final day, including several iconic stops. First up was the National Palace Museum, which Jerry explained has, “the treasures 5,000 years of Chinese nationalities (zhonghua minzu, 中華民族).” Much of our two hours inside the museum involved waiting in lines, first at the entrance for audio receivers, and then to see the famous jade cabbage.

During some of the waiting time, I asked Jerry for a little more background on his personal political beliefs. He explained to me that he had joined the New Tongmenghui (xin tongmenghui, 新同盟會), a far-right pro-unification group named for the Tongmenghui of Sun

Yat-sen, the predecessor of the KMT. He explained that the Taiwanese membership is largely composed of ex-soldiers and members of pan-blue parties including the KMT and its spin-offs.

In his capacity as a New Tongmenghui member, he had traveled to China in the last year, met minor officials, developed personal relationships, and learned more about Taiwan’s Chinese

170 roots. He said that this trip had nothing to do with his post-military career as a tour guide, which he was doing for some extra money, and because he enjoyed it.

For lunch, we ate at the Beiping (北平) Restaurant. Named for an anachronistic wording of the Chinese capital, Beijing, this was a striking choice for a final meal in Taiwan. Like many of our Taipei group shopping outlets, this restaurant also displayed signed photos of KMT mayors Ma and Hau, but not of former DPP mayor Chen Shui-bian.

After lunch, we visited the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall, where not only Falun Gong demonstrators abounded, but an elderly man wearing and vending ROC and KMT memorabilia, including flags, hats, and banners. He said he has been there daily at least since 2012, and indeed, I have seen him nearly every time I’ve been there since that year. We were allowed only

30 minutes to visit the large statue of Sun Yat-sen and the attached museum, which included artifacts from Sun’s trips to Taiwan while under Japanese rule. The exhibitions presented the later KMT party-state administration of Taiwan as a glorious manifestation of Sun’s Three

Principles of the People and his commitment to democracy and freedom.

Finally, we visited the nearby Taipei 101 skyscraper. The tour package did not include entrance tickets (approximately 500NT, or $16)) for the viewing platform on top of the building, so the group instead split into several smaller groups and window shopped the luxury outlets in the attached mall. Sun and I walked together for most of the hour we have allotted there, taking selfie photos with each other, reminiscing about the highs and lows of the week, and comparing the mall to ones in mainland China. “Yeah, this is a nice mall, but I can see this kind of thing in

Shanghai, too, and it’s got more impressive buildings there anyway. But the people here… I’ll miss their courtesy and kindness.”

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We reassembled in the mall lobby at 3pm and walked to the coach. I removed my bags with the help of the driver, and waved the group goodbye before they departed for the airport.

5.4 Analysis

From start to finish, the group tour structure and implementation consistently performed

Taiwan as a part of China and presented Taiwanese people as Chinese ethnic subjects. This was achieved via the tour guide’s choice of territorial language and his selective narration of

Taiwanese history. It was reinforced by the spatio-temporal contours of the tour operator’s itinerary, which routed us to not only “scenic spots” presented in a culturally “Chinese” register, but to shopping destinations that, while offering “local specialties,” were presented as material threads of a greater Chinese tapestry. With our hotels, restaurants, sites, and shops being primarily oriented towards Chinese tourists—with the interior signage being in simplified

Chinese characters, with cashiers accepting Chinese currency, and so on—it became increasingly easy to see why Chinese group tourists perceive Taiwan as a part of China.

This performance of Taiwan as China was a hybrid of KMT and CCP historical, territorial, and cultural imaginaries, in which Japan’s colonial legacy was either effaced or criticized, and Taiwan’s aboriginal past and present was conflated with China’s post-hoc

“minority ethnicities” (shaoshu minzu, 少數民族). It was also a performance with its own peculiar political instrumentality and economic logic: At jade shops and other stores, KMT- affiliated capitalists sold not only material products, but the promise of political unification via

172 tourist spending. Meanwhile, Falun Gong was elevated by the guide from simply a dissident religious group to a veritable bogeyman.

Guide as narrator of territory

I will first highlight the guide’s use of language and his presentation of Taiwan’s history and culture. As noted in the above account, Jerry frequently contrasted Taiwan with “the mainland” (dalu, 大陸) or “mainland China” (Zhongguo dalu, 中國大陸). He less frequently used the term “Interior” (neidi, 內地), but usually as a modifier, as in “Guests from the interior”

(neidi keren, 內地客人). I only observed one instance in which he contrasted Taiwan with

“China,” while watching a local baseball game in Hengchun. As with Howard’s slip, mentioned in Chapter 4, this occurred later in the tour, after guide-guest rapport had been established, and no one commented on it.

Such tactical use of territorial terms like “the mainland” and “the interior” is common in

Taiwanese political discourse, especially among Chinese nationalists and among Taiwanese who conduct business or other forms of exchange in China. However, with his frequent use of phrases like, “Our China” and “Our former premier, Wen Jiabao,” the guide’s historical and cultural presentation went beyond the usual bounds of mainstream discourse in post-martial law era

Taiwan. It is also worth noting that while he frequently contrasted Taiwan and mainland China as places or societies, he rarely contrasted individual Taiwanese and mainland Chinese as people or as ethnonational subjects. His frequent use of “We ” (Women Zhongguoren,

我們中國人), whether for claims of the inevitability of political unification or for more banal discussions of food preferences, recapitulated the stance shared by both KMT and CCP that

Taiwanese and Chinese are “brother ethnicities”.

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Even if the guide emphasized cultural and ethnic commonality, he could not avoid mentioning institutional differences between Taiwan and mainland China. These discussions usually valorized the supposed efficiency of China’s one-party system and lamented the supposed inefficiency and contentiousness of the Taiwanese multi-party system. The refrain,

“Taiwan is too democratic,” was repeated at least 5 times during the trip, usually to nods of approval from the tourists, at least when they were paying attention. However, he did occasionally praise Taiwan’s relatively high degree of “freedom” and religious tolerance for allowing a more “humane” (you renqingwei, 有人情味) society, even as he advised guests to steer clear of Falun Gong demonstrators.

Recapitulating shared KMT and CCP discourses of ethnic unity via opposition to a common enemy, and reflecting his own military background, the guide frequently criticized

Japan’s past and present role in Taiwan. Like former general and ROC premier, Hau Pei-Tsun, he also deployed “Japan,” Japanese colonial education, and putative Japanese ethnic identification as a trope to criticize Lee Teng-Hui, the DPP, and and independence activism in general (S. H. Tsai 2005). This served both to bond him inter- subjectively with the tourists as fellow Chinese ethno-nationals, to “cater” (yinghe, 迎合) as he told me privately) to their assumed racial biases, to evoke reconstructed shared memories of war atrocities, and to appeal to their shared territorial imagination of “One China”.

Another example of selective and partial historical narration was the guide’s frequent invocation of the trope, “sixty-five years of separation between the mainland and Taiwan,” referring to the post-1949 period of division between the PRC and the ROC on Taiwan. This trope elides the fifty years of Japanese colonial administration that he so frequently criticized, which would add half a century to the supposed “sixty-five” years of territorial division. A

174 further problematic assertion here is the claim of full “Chinese rule” of Taiwan, which is questioned by historical analyses that suggest that the Qing rule of Taiwan was hesitant and incomplete at best (Teng 2004), and is further complicated by the Qing’s Manchu heritage.

His explicit ideological orientation belied his private comments to me that he did not like discussing politics with guests. The guide’s ideological commitments were evident not only from his conduct of the tour, but also his membership in the pro-unification New Tongmenghui association. He did not reveal this membership or discuss this organization with the other tourists, as far as I saw, but he certainly engaged them in political conversation. While Jerry’s ideology makes him something of an outlier in non-touristic Taiwanese society, it served him well in this tour. His frequent critiques of the DPP, of Taiwanese independence activism, of

Taiwan’s democratic governance, and of Japan’s colonial administration and present leadership were certainly a form of political theater. But what he left unsaid was at least as important: His elisions of KMT human rights abuses, illegal land appropriations, credible polling data about widespread opposition to unification with China and the clear and inexorable increase in

Taiwanese national identification were not only a practical matter of tour management, but a personal, political choice with clear impact on the group’s perceptions of Taiwanese history and contemporary public opinion.

It is difficult to know how differently Jerry would present his opinions to a non-tour group audience in Taiwan—I can only speculate that he would not use terms like “Japanese devils” or talk about “our premier Wen Jiabao” in polite company—but it is impossible to know for certain. What is clear enough, however, is that his hyperbolic semi-public performance of

Chinese nationalism was sufficiently consistent with his private beliefs (as stated to me, at

175 least)—and the public/private distinction of performance here may be more a matter of degree than type.

Collapsing cross-strait ethnic distinctions

The guide rarely spoke in the language of post-1949 Taiwan’s most salient quasi-ethnic divisions, that of the Mainlander (waishengren, 外省人) and Taiwanese (benshengren, 本省人).

This is not surprising, as these terms are Taiwan-specific and evoke political discomfort and division that the guide usually tried to elide. Instead, he spoke more in terms that would be comprehensible to Chinese tourists, for example, “old soldiers”.

The guide also made a point of introducing the tourists not only to recent descendants of

Mainlanders (i.e. waishengren, 外省人), but to Chinese nationals residing in Taiwan. Some examples of this include the Chinese wife at the Kenting seafood stall, as well as salespeople at other tourist sites on the east coast. He did this, he explained to me in one-on-one conversation, to make the tourists feel more at home.

Remarkably, when referring to indigenous Taiwanese the guide frequently used ethnic terms that are only heard in China and not Taiwan, including “High Mountain ethnicity”

(gaoshanzu, 高山族; the PRC’s official designation for all Taiwanese aborigines) to refer to all of Taiwan’s many aboriginal groups, as well as “minority nationalities” (shaoshu minzu, 少數民

族). He also occasionally referred to them as the unique hybrid term, “high mountain aborigines”

(gaoshan yuanzhumin 高山原住民), as indigenous (yuanzhumin, 原住民; the most standard usage in Taiwan), and sometimes by their individual tribal names, such as Amis or Truku. While this usage was inconsistent, it indicated the guide’s cognizance and flexible deployment of PRC ethnic language and ideology.

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The tourists themselves did not express particular interest or concern in aboriginal issues or history. As Sun said, “We have ethnic minorities in the Mainland, too, but I don’t know too much about them either.” To Sun and the others, the aborigines were but one more thread in the multi-ethnic tapestry of “Chinese nationalities”

Shopping for unification

KMT imagery pervaded most of our shopping sites. From well-known brand-name stores such as the Chinese-invested pineapple cake shop Vigor Kobo, to smaller eateries and shops like the Beiping Restaurant and the Alishan lunch stop/tea shop, signed photos of President Ma and

Mayor Hau were placed in prominent positions. None of the sites we visited featured similar displays of DPP or other opposition leaders.

The most explicit example was provided at the KMT-operated jade store in Hualien, which not only featured portraits of both KMT and CCP leaders, but had staff that claimed that,

“Buying our vases will help support peaceful unification.” The guide had indirectly primed their sales appeal for several days by claiming that the former DPP administration had cut veterans benefits, by repeatedly pointing out veterans’ hospitals and residential complexes along the roadside, and introducing us to mainland veterans whenever possible. On the bus, he claimed that 25 percent of profits from the shop would be distributed to veterans who no longer received state support. However, the salespeople made no such claim. When I asked them individually, they said they didn’t know details, but that the store and the KMT certainly “supports our troops”. Unlike Jerry, they made their sales pitch not by presenting the store or the KMT as a veterans’ welfare agency, but as a direct way to realize political unification of China and Taiwan.

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“Using economic tactics to achieve political goals” (Yi jing cu zheng, 已經促政) has been part of China’s strategy to use financial benefits entice Taiwanese support for unification since at least the Hu Jintao era (Kastner 2006), as observed in Chapter 3. The shop, however, was an example of the converse—using political tactics to achieve economic goals—in this case, using discourses of unification and ethno-national affiliation to entice Chinese tourists to further enrich the KMT. Remarkably, no one in my group bought anything, precisely due to the apparent similarity of these methods with those of unpopular stores in mainland China.

The other shopping stops also emphasized cultural and ethnic commonalities between

China and Taiwan, while also featuring KMT iconography. Examples include the Alishan tea shop, whose products featured a photo and signature of President Ma on the box, as well as

Teresa Teng’s music, presented as having universal appeal to Chinese people on both sides of the

Strait. While these stores used assumed affiliations to stimulate sales, they stopped short of claiming that revenues would support a wider political project. However, Vigor Kobo’s status as a Chinese-Taiwanese co-invested company did allow Jerry to posit it as an example of the

“peaceful development of cross-Strait relations”.

The blurry line between business and leisure tourism

At the start of the tour, Sun told me that he and his colleagues were sent by his Taiwanese boss as both an incentive for good workplace performance, as well as in order for them to gain a better understanding of Taiwan, where the company was headquartered. Sun and his colleagues stayed within the confines of the tour group and itinerary for nearly the entire duration, apart from a company dinner in Kaohsiung. The following morning, their Taiwanese colleagues delivered several boxes that were labeled as Taiwanese confectionaries, for them to bring back to

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China. Therefore, based on their allocation of time, while the construction workers’ primary purpose was leisure, they still took the opportunity to conduct some kind of business and material exchange. The only conclusion that can be inferred from this is that other Chinese visitors who are counted as leisure tourists are likely also mixing work and pleasure. This is especially likely for independent tourists who are not bound to rigorous ground handler schedules.

Intra-group interaction

Including paid staff, our group had three basic divisions: The five Subei construction workers, the Shanghainese family of four, and the guide and driver. As an individual Western traveler, an unusual presence on such a trip, I floated between these groups as an object of polite curiosity not nearly fitting into any of these sub-groups. At larger sites, after the guide completed his basic introduction, we typically split into two groups—the family and the construction workers, who I shared time with evenly when not speaking with the guide or site vendors or staff. During lunch and dinner, all guests, including the family and children, would typically share a table, while the guide and driver would eat separately after making sure we were seated, and explaining anything exceptional about the meal. As we ate, we usually discussed the food, the sites, and our impressions of the tour and of Taiwan. More infrequently, we would talk about our personal backgrounds.

The guests were generally polite to each other and made sure that everyone had enough to eat. The construction workers were also patient with the children, who would occasionally make a mess or loud noise, eat out of sequence, or rapidly spin the table’s serving wheel in ways that inconvenienced other diners.

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Explicit conversation of political topics never took place between the family and the construction workers. However, in smaller groups, for example, during breakfast or while watching TV with the construction workers, Taiwanese politics were a common topic of conversation. The guide’s refrain, “Taiwan is too democratic,” was noted and repeated. As the only “foreigner” on this trip, and indeed the only foreigner any of my fellow tourists had ever spoken with, I was often asked to provide my opinion on these questions as an “American”. I tactically chose stances that would be inoffensive to mainstream Chinese opinion, and occasionally over-compensated by criticizing US politicians. In this way, not entirely unlike

Jerry, I became a performer as well, avoiding conflict by saying things I thought the guests would want to hear, while maintaining some degree of consistency with my own ideology.

5.5 Conclusion

This chapter has provided a detailed chronology, ethnographic account, and analysis of an eight-day group leisure tour from Shanghai to Taiwan. By paying close attention to the political inflections of the guide’s speech, to the interaction between tourists and vendors, and to the intra-group interaction between the tourists’ themselves, I have described how Taiwan was presented and represented to members of this group tour. Along the way, I have also observed particular Taiwanese vendor and other hosts reactions to the impacts of Chinese group tourism.

In this particular tour, Chinese tourist spending was explicitly directed towards KMT and

KMT-supporting businesses, unevenly benefiting Taiwan’s private sector, to the detriment of non-KMT-aligned communities. This is consistent with the positions of travel industry trade

180 association executives who explicitly expressed support for the KMT and affiliated politicians in interviews (see Chapter 3). This suggests that Chinese group tourism is also influencing the conduct and finances of domestic Taiwanese party politics

Based on this tour experience, the contours and affective contents of which is generally consistent with my interviews with tourists from other groups, I conclude that the group tour structure, still the dominant model of outbound Chinese tourism to Taiwan, has generally reproduced the effect of being in China for most group tourists. This held true throughout and despite the many unscripted and unpredictable moments of the trip. In other words, the spaces of cross-strait tourist sites and flows have been effectively stage-managed and mediated to avoid expressions of dissonance or conflict between the pro-unification ideologies of most Chinese tourists and the anti-unification sentiments of most Taiwanese hosts.

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Chapter 6

From xiaoqingxin to Spring Scream: The varieties and ambiguities of independent tourist experience

In May 2012, , China’s most popular blogger, published a post entitled, “Winds of the Pacific” (Taipingyang zhi feng, 太平洋之風), about his recent trip to Taiwan:

I don’t want to delve into the politics. As a writer from the mainland, I just feel lost. A pervasive feeling of loss. The society I grew up in spent a few decades teaching us to be violent and vengeful, and then a few more decades teaching us to be selfish and greedy. Our parents destroyed our culture, our ethics, our ability to trust, our faith and consensus, but failed to build the utopia that was promised. We may have no choice but to keep doing the same things. As a writer, I have to constantly worry about whether my words will step on some line somewhere. I assume people have ulterior motives when they treat me with warmth. Other than self-survival and competition, we have lost interest in everything else. This is how we have come to define ourselves. … Yes, I have to thank Hong Kong and Taiwan, for protecting Chinese civilization. Even when we have the Ritz Carlton and the Peninsula, Gucci and Louis Vuitton, wives of local officials with more money than their leaders, movie budgets 20 or 30 times theirs, the World’s Fair and the Olympics, but, on the streets of Taipei, I didn’t feel any bit of pride. Whatever we have, they already had; whatever we are proud of, their taxpayers will never approve; whatever we should be proud of, we’ve already lost (Han 2012, translated in Yeh 2012).

Despite his disclaimer, Han Han’s post is nothing if not political. He may skirt the question of Taiwan independence, but he uses the island imaginary as a tinted mirror for what

182 the People’s Republic of China (PRC) could be but is not, or was but is no longer. Filled with anecdotes of the kindness of strangers—the taxi driver who returned a phone that Han had dropped in the back seat, or the eyewear store owner who guilelessly gave Han’s friend a free pair of contact lenses—Han’s post treats Taiwan not as a renegade province under the thumb of the United States or as an exotic tourist destination, but as a rhetorical device for an indirect critique of the CCP’s role in the corruption of “Chinese values”. Han’s taxi driver was not just a taxi driver—in the retelling, the cabbie came to represent of the supposed generous spirit of all

Taiwanese people. Except, in Han’s reading, the driver’s generosity was not so much Taiwanese as it was Chinese, free of the corrupting influence of the CCP. Han therefore suggests he was not helped by a Taiwanese as much as he was by a more authentic Chinese subject. Taiwan’s history as a Japanese colony and US protectorate, as well as its many other specificities and contingencies are elided in this account.

I would like to compare and contrast Han Han’s account with that of Liping, a 19-year old woman from Henan Province then preparing to attend college in New York. In July 2013,

Liping listened to a talk about Beijing-based dissident artist Ai Weiwei delivered by a professor from Hong Kong University in Taipei’s famed 24-hour bookstore Eslite. Liping, then based in

Shanghai and working in an art museum, had never heard of Ai despite his international renown or design contributions to the Beijing Olympics “Bird Nest” stadium, a symbol of national pride.

She came back from Taiwan to China with a newfound appreciation for the limits of her knowledge about her own country.

I had first met Liping a few weeks earlier while browsing in the small Shanghai art museum where she served as a volunteer. During our initial casual conversation, in which she asked typical questions about what I was doing in China, she told me that she’d be going to

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Taiwan soon as an independent tourist. After explaining my research and gaining her consent and interest, the conversation quickly transitioned into a semi-structured interview. We stayed in touch during her trip through the instant messaging app, WeChat, and had another follow-up interview upon her return to Shanghai:

There was so much I learned that I didn’t know about, about Taiwan, about mainland China. I didn’t know about these artists being under house arrest. I didn’t know that Taiwan had such a vibrant arts scene… well, I knew about Eslite before I went there—it’s a famous place for us—but I didn’t realize how many books I’d see that I didn’t know about, or that there’d be these talks on people like Ai Weiwei. Wow, he’s really something (hen bu jiandan, 很不簡單) (Liping, Interview, 26 July 2013, Shanghai).

Liping’s account sounded almost too good to be true. More than Han Han’s account, which more or less recapitulated the conventional story about Taiwan as a purer part of China,

Liping’s tale could be spun as an example of the CCP’s worst nightmare, as a sign that independent tourists would inevitably find their way into scenes and spaces that would subvert hegemonic party narratives. Yet, Liping’s stance was but one of many that will compose this chapter, which focuses as much on ambiguity and contradiction as it does on coherent, linear stories of “awakening” or “uncovering” a hidden truth.

This chapter is based on participant-observation and interview data collected between

June 2012 and April 2015. While efforts were made to ensure a diversity of age, gender, and sending region in the sample, it makes no claims to being an exhaustive or even representative survey. What it is instead intended to do is to highlight and discuss the variety and diversity of independent tourist narratives and interpretations about Taiwan political history and trajectory, and to tease out factors that likely affected their perceptions and statements. In so doing, I will

184 draw threads together to discuss the new social circuits and territorial narratives being formed through the practice of independent tourism.

Interview subject recruitment proceeded through a variety of channels, both online and offline. Online, I participated in social networks and instant messaging software platforms, including Facebook, WeChat, Line, Skout, and Couchsurfing. Through the posts of friends on these sites, but more frequently via new contacts with no known prior connections to my own social networks, I recruited roughly half of my interview subjects. The remainder were recruited offline via a variety of venues and channels, including direct recruitment at airports, tourist sites, or cultural events, introductions from mutual Taiwanese friends and acquaintances, and snowballing introductions from past interview participants. It is worth noting that the diversity of their perspectives speaks as much about the different spaces within Taiwan as it does about the diversity of class, generational, and educational backgrounds of the tourists themselves. For this reason, I include basic biographical details about the tourists and background to the interview, as appropriate and available, to help situate their stories and provide important interpretive context.

As with my group tour ethnography, my positionality as well as my physical position affected the results of these interviews, which took place in a wide variety of locations. The spatial context, as well as the recruitment site, influenced the outcomes. For example, subjects recruited at independent music festivals or aboriginal folk shows tended to be younger than the mean. Some attended such events along with Taiwanese acquaintances, or had particular interests in Taiwanese cultural or performing arts. At these events, interview recruitment sometimes proceeded during group conversation within a mixed group of Chinese tourists and

Taiwanese attendees, framing a response possibly more accommodating to popular Taiwanese territorial narratives.

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For example, as related in Chapter 4, during in a mid-concert interview in Dulan, Mingqi, a 22 year-old female college student from Chengdu, Sichuan, described Taiwan as “an island in the Pacific.” This phrasing made no reference to its proximity to mainland China or its legacy, purported or otherwise, of administrative or cultural continuity. That Mingqi, a PRC citizen, spoke to me in the language of a Taiwanese nationalist showed a remarkable familiarity with local territorial ideologies. Her geographical observation, which centered Taiwan and thereby completely ignored China, was right at home in this venue.

But meetings in pro-Taiwan spaces or introductions from Taiwanese personal acquaintances did not wholly determine a conciliatory or Taiwan-centric attitude. For example,

Zhimin, a 44 year-old male urban planning professor from Shanghai Tongji University introduced to me by his Taiwanese colleague, a personal acquaintance, provided perhaps the most extraordinary pro-unification rationale I received in my entire project:

Taiwan is basically free and independent now. And I can see why they’d want to stay that way. Life here is nicer, more comfortable, cleaner, warmer… It’s probably better for Taiwan now to maintain the status quo, and that’s good for China because eventually, Taiwan and mainland China will have to reunite. Why? It’s in Taiwan’s ultimate interests, it’s in the interests of all Chinese people worldwide. There’s a resource war coming. There’s just not enough water or energy to support the whole world’s population. There’s going to be great conflict, even war ahead. There will be two main sides, the US, Europe, and Japan, versus China and the Chinese people of the world. Taiwan will need to ally with mainland China on this one. They will, it’s just a question of whether it’s sooner or later. It’s in their interests, it’s in their blood. When this showdown happens, all the Chinese people of the world will feel this struggle (douzheng, 鬥 爭) in their blood. (Zhimin, Interview 28 Jan 2012).

While Zhimin’s apocalyptic vision made him something of an outlier in my set of interviews, his contention that temporary maintenance of the status quo followed by eventual

186 unification was both inevitable and preferable to immediate unification or independence was shared by other several well-educated, economically successful informants with no connection to my social networks or any extensive set of Taiwanese friends. For example, Ping and Lu, a late-

20s professional (technology and finance industry) couple from Shanghai, whom I had first recruited at Taitung’s Water Running Up site and followed up with later in a café in their luxury

Taipei hotel, explained:

Lu: Taiwan is a pretty nice place now I think. Life here doesn’t seem as fast- paced as in Shanghai. It’s comfortable, people are friendly. I feel relaxed here, not stressed... Ping: Yes, I agree. Maybe this sounds strange to say, but I actually think it’s good that Taiwan is more or less free to be on its own right now, different from the Mainland. It makes Taiwan a nicer place to be, and eventually when Taiwan unifies with China, that means it’ll be better for China too, since we’re all one family anyway. It doesn’t need to happen now, or in the next ten or even twenty years, but it will happen, there’s no doubt about it… I don’t think it really matters what people in Taiwan want. Taiwan is so small anyway. (Lu and Ping, Interview 20 July 2012).

Other people recruited via random online channels divulged interpretations of the KMT that, while increasingly unpopular with contemporary Taiwanese youth, shared affinities with small political subcultures of ROC nostalgia on the mainland. For example, Lijun, a 26 year-old female accountant from , speculated about how different modern Chinese history might have been had the KMT defeated the CCP, and wondered if China might still be as authentically Chinese as she felt Taiwan is today:

People here seem more honest. The street names in Taipei have these kinds of Confucian attitudes in there. Eight Virtues (ba de, 八德), Loyalty and filial piety (zhongxiao, 忠孝) and so on. This place is more Chinese than China. I think the KMT has preserved Chinese culture much better here. There was no cultural revolution here… and there are temples everywhere. Sometimes I think that the

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KMT should make a deal with the CCP and offer to come back and raise China’s culture level (Interview, Lijun, 10 June 2015).

Lijun’s analysis neatly dovetailed with the KMT’s hegemonic discourse. While a minority opinion, hers would have made Ma Ying-jeou, who championed Taiwan as the standard-bearer of Chinese culture throughout his 2008-2016 presidential term, proud.

The variety evident in the above remarks are meant to situate the remaining account and analysis of the chapter, which will be flexibly structured via emergent keywords and tourist types to trace out different circuits and discourses of the independent tourist trail. These keywords include new youth colloquialisms like xiaoqingxin that, while much more prevalent within the

PRC, are frequently deployed by Chinese tourists to describe Taiwan.

6.1 Taiwan as “small, fresh, and new”—and Japanese?

Nearly all respondents under 35 years old described Taiwan in general, and in particular its bed and breakfast and youth culture event spaces as xiaoqingxin (小清新), a Chinese neologism that defies concise translation into English. Like a related term, “petit-bourgeois” or

“little capitalist” (, 小資), this is a term frequently used by middle-class mainland youth but relatively little-used in Taiwan. Literally, it is a contraction of the words for small, fresh, and new. Xiaoqingxin first entered the Chinese lexicon to describe indie pop music that evokes a warm, carefree mood, often with feminine vocal textures (Ding 2012). Typical Chinese-language examples are the music of Taiwanese musicians or Soda Green. The term was later

188 extended to refer to literature styles, including Japanese writer Haruki Murakami, as well as clothing with simple or floral designs and natural fabrics.

Xiaoqingxin quickly transcended its initial sensory modalities, and expanded from sound to image and then even to describe the affective qualities of spaces, including particular sites like retail outlets and bed and breakfasts, but also particular regions and even the entire whole of

Taiwan. For example, said Ju, a clothing retail worker from Hangzhou, “Taiwan is so xiaoqingxin. I feel like I can really relax here.” (Ju, Interview 2 February 2014). “I really like the east coast. It gives me such a xiaoqingxin feeling. It’s natural, relaxed, comfortable. I think I’ll go there more often for ,” said Lu, the professional cited earlier who was visiting from

Shanghai.

Sometimes, xiaoqingxin was used pejoratively, particularly by men. “The food here is good but the hotels are a little bit, a little bit too… cute... Xiaoqingxin. This is a destination that more women will enjoy,” said a 38 year-old male accountant from Beijing (Interview, 2

February 2014).

While xiaoqinxin was among the most frequently-used adjectives for Taiwan by independent tourists, rarely if ever did my interviewed group tourists say xiaoqingxin. While some of the words that group tourists used included warm (wenxin, 溫馨), comfortable (shufu,

舒服), friendly (qinqie, 親切)—words that don’t conflict with xiaoqingxin—few ever used xiaoqingxin itself. While this can be partly attributed to generational differences between these particular group and independent tourists—particularly evident in the different music tastes and fashion sensibilities— it is also likely due to the very different spaces they experienced and produced within Taiwan. The mass market hotels of the group tourist circuit presented stark

189 stylistic contrasts with the smaller bed and breakfast inns (minsu, 民宿) chosen by many independent tourists. Even more memorable than the hotels, the obligatory, aggressive commission-based shopping stores responsible for the bulk of tour operator profits were large and often hastily-constructed, not small and fresh, as opposed to many of the smaller boutique outlets and pop-up stores along the east coast or in commercial areas that were more popular with younger shoppers, including Taipei’s university or Taitung’s Dulan.

The “xiaoqingxin-ification” of Taiwanese spaces and shops was a cause of concern for some Taiwanese culture workers, who feared the gentrification of established centers of new youth culture, like Shida, the National Taiwan Normal University , an area which incubated Taiwan’s underground music scene in the 1990s and 2000s. By the late 2000s, Shida had become been a site of struggle between entertainment, night market vendors, local resident associations, and real estate developers interested in “urban redevelopment projects” (Frazier

2012). Underworld, Shida’s landmark live music space, was forced to close in 2013 due to newly aggressive enforcement of old permit violations. In its place arose a new lifestyle outlet derided by Claire, a Taiwanese singer-songwriter and Sunflower activist:

Underworld, and Shida in general used to be so exciting. Now Underworld is closed and the area around is filling up with all these xiaoqingxin stores. I don’t know, maybe they’re aimed at Chinese tourists. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even recognize this neighborhood anymore. (Claire, Interview 8 August 2014).

Small and fresh… and Japanese?

For tourists with relatively extensive international travel and cultural experience, the cute or “kawai” [“cute” in Japanese] qualities implicit in the growing xiaoqingxin aesthetic also evoked Taiwan’s complicated relationship with Japan. This is a sensitive issue for Chinese

190 visitors, but not one of which everyone was equally aware. For example, Jing, a 28 year-old, college-educated solo female tourist recruited for interviews via the mobile app Skout, expressed shock when I asked her how she felt about Japan’s colonial legacy:

Me: Do you see any Japanese influence in Taiwan? Jing: I see a lot of fashion trends here that seem to come from Japan, but clearly Taiwan is Chinese. I mean, it’s always been a part of China. Me: Even during the period of Japanese rule? Jing: Taiwan was colonized by Japan? Really? Are you sure? Why didn’t I know about that? Me: Yes, for fifty years. Who did you think was administering Taiwan in the early 20th century, or during World War II or the war between the KMT and CCP? Jing: I don’t know. I guess I thought it was just always part of the Republic of China. But you’re saying it was Japan? Wow. Really, I had no idea. How could I not know that? (Jing, Interview, 25 April 2014)

Jing had already spent three full days in Taipei and had visited landmark buildings built during the Japanese period, including the Presidential Office. It is worth noting that Jing was college educated and worked for an international marketing company based in Shenzhen,

China’s wealthiest city, on the border with Hong Kong. Following this trip, she has returned twice to Taiwan to explore the east coast, which she described in a WeChat conversation as, “So slow and beautiful and sunny and xiaoqingxin… it’s almost like a different country (guojia, 國

家). It’s kind of like what I imagine to be like.”

Other visitors were more cognizant of Japan’s influence on Taiwan, and used it to provide an interpretive and comparative frame. For example, Chiyun, a 37 year-old male

191 accountant and the colleague of a Chinese acquaintance, described Taipei’s shopping district in the following terms:

It looks kind of like Shinjuku, with all the signs and flashing lights and Japanese brands everywhere. Then again, we have all this flashiness (huali, 華麗) in our shopping districts too. But still, maybe because the only other overseas (haiwai, 海外) place I’ve been to besides Taiwan is Japan, this sort of looks a bit like that. Plus I can tell that people here still sort of identify with Japan... like, Lee Teng- hui. He still speaks Japanese all the time, right? I don’t know why. (Chiyun, Interview, 10 February 2014).

Chiyun’s contrast of Taiwan with Japan is simultaneously banal and politically charged—banal because it discusses mere visual surface and is based on a limited dataset, as he has no other place to compare it to. Yet, his quick subsequent mention of Lee Teng-hui, widely reviled in the PRC, touched on a key geopolitical and cultural legacy of Taiwanese leaders that he found discomforting. This tension is familiar to other PRC tourists who grapple with the contradiction between a fondness for contemporary Japanese youth and fashion culture and continued resentment for unresolved World War II-era legacies of violence. These legacies are instrumental to narratives of national humiliation (Callahan 2009) that invoke Taiwan. This issue animated the account of Zhimin, the Shanghai professor we met in the introduction to the chapter, who predicted a future global race war and environmental apocalypse. He reflected:

Taiwan seems a lot closer to Japan, like the people here wish they were Japanese. I’ve been to both of them a lot. You know I’m an urban planning professor, so I can see how Taiwanese urban spaces are a lot like Japan’s, and of course there are old Japanese buildings all over the place… Right now it makes sense that Taiwan would feel closer to Japan. Japan is still richer and more advanced than China, and Taiwan was colonized by it. But we’re bigger, we’re stronger, we’ve got a more ancient history. Taiwan will have to come around and return eventually. (Zhimin, Interview 28 Jan 2012).

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It is striking that so many of the independent tourists observed parallels with Japan. Even those like Jing, who was naïve about Taiwan’s colonial history, still noticed fashion and youth culture influence. Yet, so few group tourists, both in my Shanghai group tour and in my other interviews and conversations at tourist sites, commented on Japan and Japanese influence. I propose the following explanation for this discrepancy: 1) As observed in Chapter 3, independent tourists come from a more limited set of wealthier cities and have other slightly higher barriers to entry. This attracts a set of people who are likelier to have traveled to or otherwise gained deeper firsthand impressions of Japan; and 2) Guides typically centered China and displaced Japan in their narratives of Taiwan. As one example, Guide Jerry did frequently talk about the Japanese colonial administration in critical terms, but his overall ethnic narrative focused more on similarities and continuities between Taiwan and China. In Chapter 3, similar behavior was observed even with Howard, who didn’t otherwise really perform as an aggressive Chinese nationalist. In interviews, other tour guides generally confirmed that they engaged the idea of

Japan only as necessary while still keeping China centered in the narrative arc of local history.

For independent tourists, there is a further layer of irony to this blurriness between Japan and China as cultural roots of contemporary Taiwan: Many of the more culturally “civilized” qualities that independent tourist Han Han attributes to a purer version of Chinese culture could just as easily be attributed to Japanese colonial and contemporary influence, and often are by

Taiwanese themselves. But Han Han, like many group tourists, is sufficiently invested in the

Chinese national narrative to not note this possibility. This leads to the next set of keywords.

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6.2 “Warm,” “friendly,” “civilized”—and feminine?

The affective force of Han Han’s popular blog post, which opens this chapter, is predicated on the presentation of Taiwan as a place that has preserved the “warmth” and

“friendliness” of “traditional Chinese culture”. As observed in Chapters 4 and 5, these qualities have been observed not only by Han Han, but by a variety of other Chinese tourists: warm

(wenxin, 溫心), friendly (reqing, 熱情), and civilized (wenming, 文明). “Warm” and “friendly” are everyday words in Taiwan, but “civilized” has a particular valence in contemporary China, where it has been used in national-level campaigns to produce a certain kind of citizen-subject that dutifully fulfills the biopolitical objectives of the state (Tomba 2009). This of course recalls much older civilizationist discourses in imperial China (Callahan 2005). Its political import has extended to campaigns to “improve” the behavior of Chinese tourist “ambassadors” abroad (Chio

2010).

Most if not all independent tourists shared Han Han’s appraisal of Taiwanese as warm and friendly. Their causal explanations varied, with some supporting his Chinese civilizationist thesis, and others adopting a more developmental discourse in which Taiwan is presented as having achieved a more modern cultural level, even if its physical infrastructure has been outpaced by China’s first-tier cities. In almost all cases, these tourists used Taiwan as an example for mainland China to learn from, even if they cautioned that Taiwan might have lost its competitive economic edge. The frequency of use of ideologically-loaded terms like “civilized” ran (slightly) inversely proportional with youth, with it appearing more often with older respondents. A 23 year-old fresh graduate from Nanjing University observed:

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The pace of life here is a lot more relaxed. People don’t seem as worried about their careers. I see cafés everywhere, bars. Maybe it’s because there’s no better jobs for them to do here besides those… so that many of the people here go to the Interior to find work. But maybe it’s worth it for the people here who can stay. People here are friendlier and more leisurely. I’m going to have to come back more often when my stress level gets too high. (Interview, Amu, 10 July 2013).

A 46 year-old accountant observed, “Taiwanese seem more civilized in general than people in the mainland. They talk more softly and don’t litter trash on the streets. In fact, it’s pretty amazing that Taipei is as clean as it is given how hard it can be to find a trash can around here.”

Taiwan’s warmth and friendliness was partially gendered in many accounts of both male and female tourists, who often commented on the softness (wenrou, 溫柔) of the visual appearance and speech patterns of Taiwan’s women, and even some of its men.5 Few of them hazarded any effort at causal explanation beyond a kind of light geographical determinism, in which Taiwan’s small island topography and safe environment produced a kind of gentility. A related comparative guess was that China’s rapid modernization, urban migration, family planning, and communist ideology had bred out the traditional femininity of its women. For example, Zhu, a bookish middle manager at a logistics company, observed:

Women here are so soft and not fierce (qianghan, 強悍) like our women, particularly those in Shanghai. I guess Taiwan didn’t have such a quick modernization, or it had modernized before, and so women didn’t need to fight so hard to get ahead professionally. Or maybe because there are bigger families here so the women are more traditional? (Zhu, Interview, 5 May 2014).

5 I have even been told on several occasions while conducting research in the PRC or with PRC tourists that my Taiwanese accent presents as “girly” or “effeminate” (diadia de, 嗲嗲的), pushing me to experiment with different speech patterns.

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The purportedly “soft” attributes of Taiwanese women were not universally praised; some tourists found it “affected” (zuozuo de, 做作的) or irritating, saying they preferred the

“directness” of women in the Mainland. There is also a fair bit of irony in the perception of

Taiwanese women as more traditionally feminine, given that Taiwan would rank as the second- most “gender equal” society in the world, far higher than China, if it was included in the United

Nations Gender Inequality Index (Liu 2013).

Military tension adds a further wrinkle to the issue of perceived cross-Strait differences in the performance of gender. For example, Zhimin, the apocalyptic professor from Shanghai, said,

“Can you imagine the men here fighting? I know there’s still conscription and forced military service, for now, but the guys here are too gentle. They wouldn’t stand a chance against our men.” In this case, a kind of patriarchal militarism was used to assert the inevitability of

Taiwan’s annexation.

6.3 “Free,” “democratic,” and falling behind?

Taiwan’s democratic system was perceived variably by tourists within my interview sample. Some agreed with the guide and group tourists of Chapter 5 that Taiwan is “too democratic”. Others suggested that Taiwan is not truly democratic, and that the elections are a sham and controlled by domestic corporate or external (usually American) interests. Others expressed admiration for Taiwan’s vigorous election culture. Few of them saw any essential

196 contradictions between democratic practice and Chinese ethno-national identity, although they usually highlighted the imagined “impossibility” of a similar system working in contemporary

China. Many of their opinions combined observations of both institutional election practices and media culture. For example, said a 33 year-old male civil engineer from Xiamen:

I’ve been to Taiwan 5 times in the last two years and it seems like there’s always an election going on. There are noisy electioneering trucks, fireworks, billboards… TV shows with critics ruthlessly attacking the politicians. How can people here keep up with it all? It’s impressive that these people [pundits] who analyze and criticize can be so incisive (xili, 犀利) but I think it’s not good for Taiwan’s image as a whole. The attacks on politicians are so personal. And if the president is called a or whatever, what does that say about Taiwan as a country? (Interview, Hao, 4 March 2014).

Another argued that China’s political system was not only superior to Taiwan, but to the

US, and self-interested Taiwanese would be forced to realign:

I think that Taiwan’s political system on the whole probably makes Taiwan a nicer place to live right now than the mainland, but in the long term it’s not competitive. We can build things so much faster—highways, buildings, industry. There’s no way Taiwan can keep up with that, and it’s not just because Taiwan is small. You see too that the US super-power is also falling behind China. Our system is just better, more efficient, faster. And it’s more culturally suited to Chinese people (zhongguoren, 中國人) too. We’ve been an empire in the past, and Confucian. And we just do things differently, and you see even Africa and all these other poor countries want to do business with us now and not the US. Taiwanese people will eventually see this. They’re practical and want to be prosperous. They won’t look to the US for support forever. The US won’t be able to keep up anyway (Jibai, Interview, 3 March 2015).

The thrust and nuance of Jibai’s analysis was typical of most independent tourists I spoke with. Unlike many group tourists, he had spent enough time observing Taiwan to note that most people in Taiwan have no particular desire for political union with China, or to adopt a political

197 system that resembles China’s. But he still supported a goal of eventual unification and believed that Taiwanese would inevitably find that it was in their self-interest to agree with him.

There were exceptions to this narrative, including people who posited that China could learn from Taiwan’s media and election system. Some of these reflections were couched in kind of a kind of nostalgia for a pre-communist China. For example, Jing, whom we met earlier, said that “If the ROC still governed China, it would probably be like Taiwan is today—both Chinese and democratic.” Another respondent, introduced to me by her American Airbnb host, acknowledged that there might be something culturally novel or distinctive about Taiwan’s grassroots democratization:

I’ve read a little about Taiwan’s democratization and also the 228 Incident. Maybe it’s because I stayed in the Airbnb of a foreigner and she had this book on her shelf about it, and also these anti-nuclear slogan banners on the wall. It seems like some Taiwanese are really proud of their political system. It’s too bad that some of them use that to think they aren’t Chinese or part of China. That’s a bit too much. But still the CCP will probably have to learn from the KMT if it wants to keep power (Mei, Interview, 1 June 2014).

These last responses are also basically consistent with those of Lu and Ping, the

Shanghai-based professional couple introduced earlier in the chapter, who thought that it was in

China’s long-term interest for Taiwan to stay autonomous and democratic for a few more decades before politically uniting with China.

6.4 Consuming and performing Taiwan’s youth music culture

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Youth music culture, with its concerts, festivals, and rallies, presents a field in which the sentiments and imaginaries of the previous sub-sections can articulate in a sensually and semiotically rich environment. Taiwan’s music and celebrity culture has been popular in the PRC at least since the 1980s (Gold 1993). More recently, independent Chinese tourists have come to

Taiwan particularly to explore not only pop music but also independent rock and electronic dance music culture. The nodes of this tourist circuit included shows at Taipei’s popular live music houses, pilgrimages to annual festivals throughout the island, such as Spring Scream in

Kenting, and trips throughout the year to towns like Dulan that are known for local folk music culture. Taiwan’s popular contemporary music festivals and live houses quite literally perform the cultural and political themes of this chapter on a multi-dimensional stage, allowing for more spontaneous and unmediated interaction and engagement than at designated tourist sites.

Witch House, a small independent music venue and café near National Taiwan

University, is a noted Taipei hotspot and is mentioned in a number of online Chinese tourism blogs. According to Bully, the bookings manager, the space was popular with young tourists even during the daytime when there were no scheduled live performances: “They even show up just to take selfies. There’s so so many of them, we see them all the time now. Every day, really.

Probably more come just to take photos than to actually see the shows.” (Interview, Bully, 27

June 2012). Other venues include The Wall (originally co-founded by Spring Scream’s Jimi Moe and Chthonic’s Freddy Lim) and Revolver, both located in university districts. Dulan, a much more remote destination, has drawn a more committed set of music and culture tourists than the capital, including tourists like Liping with whom this chapter opened.

Spring Scream (Chuntian nahan, 春天吶喊) and Spring Wave (Chun lang yinyueji 春浪

音樂祭), which take place in the southern beach town of Kenting during the national Tomb

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Sweeping (Qingming Jie, 清明節) in early April, are two of Taiwan’s best-known annual music festivals. Other draws included electronic music events throughout the year, such as Earth Fest and Green Ecstasy. Many of the tourists I interviewed at the Kenting events were

Chinese university students who came to visit their classmates on exchange at Taiwanese universities and timed them around the holiday music festivals.

Spring Scream, the longest-running independent rock festival in Taiwan, if not all of

Asia, was founded in 1995 by two Taiwan-based American expatriates, Wade Davis and Jimi

Moe. Spring Scream catalyzed Kenting’s transformation from a sleepy beach village into a tourist destination and helped launch many Mandarin-speaking acts now popular in China, such as Mayday (Wu yue tian, 五月天). Still run by Davis and Moe and over-shadowed by newer, larger, corporate-sponsored pop or electronic music festivals such as Spring Wave, the vast majority of Spring Scream’s performers continue to be independent Taiwanese bands.

While Spring Scream itself is not explicitly political, it and other nodes of Taiwan’s independent music scene have long been cultural incubators for radical political activism, including displays of pro-independence, anti-nuclear, and pro-environmental protection sentiment. Of course, the culture that spawned and sustained events like Spring Scream has traditionally been centered in small venues in neighborhoods like Shida, which have suffered economic and political pressures and closure, as observed in Section 6.1. The most famous personal example of musical and political overlap is that of Freddy Lim, a past business associate of Moe’s and the lead singer for death metal band, Chthonic, which regularly performs at Spring

Scream. A cultural and political entrepreneur, Lim founded the Formoz rock festival in Taipei, staged pro-independence music events in front of the Presidential Office during the Chen Shui- bian presidency, and served as the director of Amnesty International’s Taiwan chapter. In 2015,

200 he co-founded the with other Sunflower Movement-affiliated figures and won a hotly-contested legislative seat in the January 2016 elections. Another example of the overlaps between politics and music is the group Radicalization (Jijin zhenxian, 激進陣線 or jijin gongzuoshi 激進工作室), a music and design collective specializing in pro-independence and pro-direct action clothing and paraphernalia. Their most popular t-shirt—black background with white text reading “Fuck the government, 自己國家自己救 (Save your own country)”—became iconic during the Sunflower Movement, and their products (both authentic and counterfeit) are on direct sale at many street rallies and music festivals, including Spring Scream.

Since 2007, Spring Scream has taken place in a reserved section at Eluanbi Lighthouse, a national park on the southern tip of Taiwan that has become increasingly popular with Chinese tourists—as I relate in Chapter 5, my August 2014 Jiangnan VIP tour group was no exception.

During the festival weekend, about half of the park is roped off and guarded by staff and volunteers. Within the park but outside the festival grounds, tourism proceeded as usual, with the typical assortment of buses, guided groups, and smaller numbers of independent tourists. Of the fifteen tourists I spoke with in the park, few knew about the legacy of the festival inside, although they were curious about the exciting commotion (熱鬧, renao) they could hear from beyond the boundary.

Within the festival grounds, the paying Chinese tourist attendees I interviewed were all under 30 years old. Many were college students visiting classmates who were on exchange programs within Taiwan. None of them wanted to talk politics, and several of them were confused and disappointed that they had accidentally bought tickets for the older and smaller

“Spring Scream,” the name of which continues to be conflated by the media with all of the many

201 happenings on Kenting on that holiday weekend, instead of the larger and more pop music- oriented Spring Wave. At one of the stages, a punk band led the crowd in a brief “Fuck China!” chant. A few paces away was Radicalization’s booth, selling its growing stable of political gear, including a t-shirt whose back read (in English): “Taiwan is not a part of China,” and whose front read (in Chinese): “The Interior of Taiwan is Nantou” (Taiwan de neidi shi Nantou, 台灣的

內地是南投), a political geographic joke that poked fun at Taiwanese performers who, when catering to the China market, refer to China as the “interior” instead of Nantou county, which is literally in Taiwan’s geographic center.6

Despite the overt political language of some of the performers and booths, the vast majority of music and vending indexed simpler themes of peace and love and fun and community spirit, and all tourist interview respondents chose to highlight these gentler qualities of the event and of Kenting’s beach holiday appeal. Said Yiming, a 22 year-old male student from Guangzhou who was visiting his Taichung-based schoolmates for spring break:

This festival is sort of different than what takes place back in the interior. I can tell that this event has been going on a while. People know each other. It’s friendly and safe. People aren’t trying to sell me stuff... Well, there’s beer but it’s not advertised all over the place, and it’s cheap! I don’t know. I think this is the real Kenting “spirit” (jingshen, 精神). (Yiming, Interview, 4 April 2015).

Another respondent observed a kind of “clique-y” quality to Spring Scream’s culture and linked this to Taiwan’s island geography:

Yes this is fun enough but I feel like it’s hard to really fit into this festival without playing guitar and singing or something. It’s inward-looking, kind of like I feel

6 Taking this joke to the next level, Radicalization and its associates organized a new festival, Inland Rock (Neidi yaogun, 內地搖滾), in Nantou on 19 September, 2015. Unfortunately I was unable to attend this event.

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Taiwan is. Maybe it has something to do with Taiwan being a small island. (Zhang, Interview, 4 April 2015.

Zhang himself came from a wealthy, mobile, and educated family from province, and had traveled to Japan, Thailand, and Europe before Taiwan. To him, Taiwan seemed insular and non-cosmopolitan, despite the large number of international attendees visible at Spring Scream during our interview. Perhaps it was indeed due the focus on local culture and identity evident at various sites of the festival.

In most interviews at Spring Scream and elsewhere, music tourists did not explicitly object to the expression of “local” (bentu, 本土) sentiment, but at Mono Circus, a small electronic music festival held for the first time in Nantou County in June 2015, I observed a 22 year-old Inner Mongolian male tourist nearly get into a fist fight with festival co-organizers who refused to humor his casual assertion, over beers, that “We are all Chinese people.” My interview with the tourist, who had learned about the festival by a chance meeting with an attendee on a train, turned into his attempt to demonstrate to me that Taiwan has belonged to China since the

Ming dynasty.

The “soft power” of Taiwan’s music culture industry has not gone unnoticed by pro- unification forces. July and August 2015 saw the first “Cross-Strait Youth Scream” event on

Guanyinshan beach in Xiamen, Fujian Province. The website of one of the two organizing agencies, Jiuzhou Culture Broadcasting Center (九州文化傳播中心), which is dedicated to

“Opening cross-strait cultural exchanges,” described the event as a “new platform for cross-Strait youth to express their love of cross-Strait peace, freedom and trendiness (ziyou shishang, 自由時

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尚), and quest for a musical life.”7 The alleged participation of former Taiwan government officials, including an ex-official in the Mainland Affairs Council, drew criticism from DPP legislators and briefly earned newspaper headlines within Taiwan (Hung and Yang 2015). None of the Chinese tourists or Taiwanese musicians or fans I interviewed in 2015 had heard of this event, much less planned to attend it. Meanwhile, the founders of Spring Scream, neither of whom are particularly politically active, expressed bemused displeasure on their Facebook pages about the unauthorized appropriation of their event name.

I will close this section with one recent anecdote that illustrates how Taiwan’s territoriality is at play even in a show by a major American pop star: While opening for on 4 February 2016 at the , a DJ shouted “I love Taiwan!”, which the crowd cheered. He followed this up with, “I love China!” According to the personal communication of an eyewitness, “the stadium, filled mostly with young people, went nearly silent. No booing. Just a polite, albeit pregnant, silence... Said DJ has since apologized.” Madonna wrapped herself in the ROC flag to close the show, a maneuver that star had done a year earlier in

Taipei, for which she received opprobrium from Chinese netizens. Days earlier, Madonna’s online promotional campaign featured an image of her face on the blue and white sun flag of the

KMT (which is, controversially, embedded in the corner of the ROC flag). This did not sit well with some Taiwanese fans; the top Facebook commenter (with 3,500 likes) pointed out that

Madonna was (unintentionally) conflating the KMT regime with Taiwan: “OMG this is not

Taiwan or Taipei's symbol ,this is the symbol of the party KMT that kills so many

Taiwanese.please correct this ridiculous mistake.show some respect to this island” (Linder

7 http://www.jiuzhouwenhua.com/c48485.jsp, accessed 4 February 2016.

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2016). In the meantime, Madonna was also attacked online by Chinese netizens for wearing the

ROC flag. In the Taiwanese territorial vortex, even queens of American pop are not immune.

6.5 Family visitors

I would like to turn now from the culturally and politically pregnant themes of the previous sections to something more banal but significant and underreported. Randomized interview recruitment of outgoing Chinese nationals at airports revealed that a significant number of independent visitors to Taiwan include relatives of Chinese nationals (usually women) who have married Taiwanese. Strictly speaking, these people were not leisure tourists per se, but based on my 3 trips to Taipei Songshan airport to conduct randomized interview recruitment at different times of day, they represented a considerable sub-set of people visiting under permit regimes designed for independent tourists. Concerns about such use of independent tourist permits to facilitate travel for other kinds of purposes, including espionage or eventual labor migration, had been raised by some politicians, Taiwanese nationalists and other commentators

(Cole 2010; Chao 2011).

The 12 such visitors that consented to interviews included eight parents and four siblings of Taiwan-resident Chinese wives. The majority spent over two weeks within Taipei, longer than typical leisure tourists, but spent less time sight-seeing. While all eight of the parents were visiting for the first time, they expressed much more interest in spending time with their daughters than with visiting local tourist sites. All of them had relatively positive impressions of

Taiwan, more or less fitting the standard “warm, friendly, and civilized” discourse outlined

205 above. The siblings expressed little interest in moving to Taiwan or confidence in their economic prospects there. A typical response from a 16 year-old brother was, “I’m going to go back to

Tianjin to start a trading company. There’s a lot more going in back home. It’s kind of boring here and not as modern as I expected” (Interview, Han, 2 August 2012).

Such visitation is functionally a continuation of the mobility reforms of the late 1980s and 1990s period, when the visitation of relatives between the PRC and ROC was finally permitted by both sides. However, all of the 12 interview subjects were using the newer travel permits for independent tourists, which they described as much easier to apply for. Therefore, in institutional and regulatory terms, this phenomena demonstrates another, likely unintentional instrumentality of tourism development—the opening of independent leisure tourism has facilitated and expanded older forms of permitted travel.

Taking what they said at face value and assuming they were not there to conduct espionage, far from validating the fears of more strident Taiwanese nationalists who fear job loss to Chinese migrant or immigrant workers and the possible growth of a pro-unification voting bloc, these Chinese visitors expressed no desire to stay in or affect Taiwan in any way, apart from visiting their relatives. Their relevance to both this project and to cross-Strait tourism in general is the provision of a useful if mundane counter-point to the tensions outlined earlier in this chapter—in short, a significant number of Chinese visitors simply don’t care all that much about “Politics”.

6.6 Conclusion

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In this chapter, structured around a key words and themes approach, I have recounted and analyzed a diverse set of interview and ethnographic data. Particular themes that were explored included Taiwan as “small fresh, and new”; warm, friendly and civilized; and free and democratic. In many of the interviews, these themes also over-lapped with Taiwan’s Japanese colonial heritage, and the trajectory of China’s own modernization and political development.

The chapter continued by exploring the articulation of these themes in the spaces of Taiwan’s music culture, and how these were perceived by and engaged with by independent Chinese tourists.

The independent tourists I interviewed generally expressed a wider variety of opinions than the group tourists presented earlier in this dissertation. While the vast majority supported

China’s claims to Taiwan, several of the independent tourists suggested that Taiwan’s current de facto independence would be good for both Taiwan and China in the long run, after ultimate unification. Several others, such as Mingqi in Dulan, simply didn’t care about this and were content to allow Taiwanese to determine their own political future. Some independent tourists had politically and aesthetically transformative experiences, like Liping, the 17 year-old art museum volunteer who discovered dissident artist Ai Weiwei at a Taipei bookstore. Others, like the blogger Han Han, used Taiwan to imagine an idealized, nostalgic version of a purer Chinese world. Yet others actually entered into the more visceral, messier fray of an event like Spring

Scream, which playfully mixes the youth appeal of independent music and pro-independent politics.

The territorial narratives of these tourists are diverse and resist easy typologies. Even many of those who appreciated Taiwan’s current de facto independence still hoped for or assumed the inevitability of unification with China. Some of those who expressed the most

207 sympathy or support for Taiwan independence were those who associated with Taiwanese friends at music and other cultural events, suggesting that the social circuits formed through the practice of independent tourism had an effect on their territorial narratives. Going in the other direction, tourists’ pre-trip territorial ideologies may also have influenced the places they visited and the people they socialized with.

In many of these cases, freed from the constraints of group tourism, independent tourists stepped off the standard stops and temporarily transcended their tour book itineraries. However, many others, including the family tourists interviewed at Songshan Airport, claimed to have barely even left the house, and showed little interesting in anything distinctively “Taiwanese”.

Taiwan’s heterotopian, territorial Rohrshach qualities, as noted in Chapter 4, allowed them to project a wide variety of territorial imaginaries, saying as much about the tourists themselves and where they came from as it did about Taiwan.

What general conclusions can be drawn from this chapter’s broad discussion of the diverse attitudes, behaviors, and travel circuits of independent tourists? Some pro-Taiwan independence advocates have suggested that opening the gates to increased independent tourism would cause security holes and economic threats—while my research was not designed to uncover and did not demonstrate such threats, my more mundane results suggest that many family visitors care quite little about “Politics”. Meanwhile, there is also little evidence to support the claims of Ma Ying-Jeou and others who suggested that Taiwan’s democratic values would somehow be absorbed by Chinese tourists, leading to social transformation in the PRC.

Independent tourism is therefore a highly inconsistent political technology of state territorialization. In some cases, it caused what might be termed a “territorial resocialization” in which tourists changed their pre-trip stances towards Taiwan, and even reimagined themselves as

208 different kinds of Chinese subjects. In other cases, it simply consolidated a Chinese subjectivity and built hopes for territorial “unification,” even if it subtly adjusted or deferred the desired timeline or mechanisms. As for hosts, most Taiwanese said they preferred independent tourists to group tourists, and actively avoided group tourist shopping destinations. But others, like the

Sunflower activist and singer, Claire, also expressed dismay about the commercial and aesthetic impacts of independent tourists as well. While such impacts can be observed in banal, commercial territorializations of the tourist industry anywhere, in the case of Taiwan, it is nonetheless often still inflected through a politics of opposition to the PRC territorialization program.

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Chapter 7

Chinese tourism as a factor in the 2014 Taiwan Sunflower and Hong Kong Umbrella Movements

The year 2014 saw the most significant political protests in both Taiwan and Hong Kong in decades. Taiwan’s episode was triggered by the legislative near-passage of the Cross-Strait

Services Trade Agreement (CSSTA), a free trade agreement that would have significantly liberalized cross-Strait investment and ownership of politically sensitive sectors including tourism. This would have produced the biggest structural change to the cross-Strait tourism economy since the opening of leisure tourism in 2008. Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement was triggered by the PRC’s refusal to permit civil nominations for the Chief Executive of the Special

Administrative Region, a right that had been long sought-after by democracy activists.

These movements arose during a particularly gloomy economic and political period for both territories, decried in domestic media and commented on abroad. Housing in both Hong

Kong and Taipei (Chen 2015) had become unaffordable for many residents. New college graduates in Taipei were facing limited job prospects and low salaries (Dou and Luk 2014). By many measures, including a 2011 Gini coefficient of 0.537—well above the 0.4 marker used by analysts to suggest the potential for social unrest—Hong Kong was rated as among the most

210 unequal economies in the world (Hu and Yun 2013). Young activists and international diplomats

(Bush 2014) alike speculated that collusion between local oligarchs and the CCP might be driving both economic and political woes.

“Say goodbye to Taiwan,” wrote political scientist John Mearsheimer in a widely read article in the March-April 2014 issue of The National Interest (Mearsheimer 2014). Threatened by China’s rising economic might and abandoned by a weakening United States, one of Asia’s most vibrant democracies was facing, in his “realist” analysis, an almost inevitable Chinese annexation via economic if not military force. “Time,” he wrote, “is running out for the little island coveted by its gigantic, growing neighbor.”

Only days after publication of Mearsheimer’s article, on March 18, activists and armchair analysts alike said hello to a new reality with an unprecedented student-led occupation of

Taiwan’s Legislative Yuan (parliament). It would have been impossible to predict that the occupation, later known as the 318 or Sunflower Movement, would last twenty-four days, spawn the biggest pro-democracy protest rally in the island’s history, reframe popular discourse about

Taiwan’s political and social trajectory, and ultimately prefigure the 2014 and 2016 electoral collapse of the KMT and the DPP capture of the presidency and legislature.

This transformation happened while the Ma administration continued its frequent invocation of claimed economic, cultural, and political benefits for Taiwan and even for eventual change in China from closer cross-Strait cooperation—tourism as a marquee example—as exemplified in the published response to Mearsheimer’s article from Lin, Executive

Officer of the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office (the de facto ROC consulate), who argued that, “…37 percent of the eight million tourists to visit Taiwan in 2013 were mainland Chinese.

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As time passes, Taiwan’s success will definitely enlighten and make a positive impact on the general public of the Mainland” (T. Lin 2014).

In Hong Kong, the slogan “The city is dying, you know,” matched Mearsheimer’s gloominess about the future. This phrase, a “declinist culture meme” (Garrett 2013a, 115), emerged from the hit local television show, “When Heaven Burns,” and proliferated throughout spaces of visual political resistance. Its theme song was adopted as the major protest song during the Anti-Moral and National Education Campaign (MNE) of 2012 (Huang and Rowen 2015).

The song again resurfaced during the Umbrella Movement, which began as a protest in favor of civil nominations—the right for Hong Kong voters to nominate their own Chief Executive, instead of choosing between three candidates who had been pre-selected by the PRC leadership in Beijing. This Movement grew into a 79-day occupation of three major urban spaces in Hong

Kong, two of which were in areas popular with Chinese tourists. While Hong Kong’s eruption did not achieve a political settlement similar to that of the Sunflower Movement, it did for a time capture world media attention, galvanize a new generation of activists, and marked a historical turning point whose sociopolitical ramifications are still unfolding

It is remarkable that a place with as dense and vigorous a human landscape as Hong

Kong could be said to be dying, especially given the “China Tourist Wave” (Siu, Lee, and Leung

2013) that hit the city, bringing over a quarter billion arrivals of Chinese tourists since 2003. But the economic gains brought by rising property values and blockbuster sales of milk powder and other commodities gave way to rising fears about threats to Hong Kong culture and quality of life. Instead of thanking the PRC for this “gift,” many locals instead complained of rising prices and negatively impacted public spaces. Localist and nativist forces seized upon these fears to galvanize both street-level and electoral campaigns (Garrett 2013b; Garrett and Ho 2014).

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Meanwhile, “Today’s Hong Kong is Tomorrow’s Taiwan” became a popular rallying cry of Taiwan independence activists who feared a Hong Kong-style “One Country, Two Systems” arrangement for Hong Kong. This slogan was visually evident on stickers throughout the indoor and outdoor spaces of the Sunflower Movement, was exhorted during talks and lectures in free speech zones, and debated in popular media outlets. Yet it is significant that Chinese tourism, while a major component of the CSSTA, received less attention in Taiwan before, during, and after the Sunflower Movement than it did in Hong Kong in the months leading up to and following Hong Kong’s Umbrella Movement, even if the explicit initial demands of the more mainstream Umbrella Movement leaders had nothing to do with Chinese tourism. This chapter explores this apparent contradiction.

Based largely on first-hand fieldwork in both movements, this chapter goes into significant ethnographic detail particularly about the Sunflower Movement. Having entered the

Legislative Yuan on March 19 and stayed inside and around the building for most of its occupation, as well as having joined the Hong Kong movement for approximately one month, much of this chapter is based on a mix of participant-observation, interviews, and analysis of media reports. Coming from an embedded researcher, the account more reflects voices from inside the movements than those of its outside critics.

I will examine how these movements consolidated and accelerated pre-existing trends towards increasing local (non-Chinese) identification, and how they affected Taiwanese electoral politics and Hong Kong cultural politics despite (or because of) increasing flows of tourists and capital from mainland China. I will argue that as Chinese tourism provisions composed a major part of the failed trade agreement that triggered the Taiwan Sunflower Movement, concern about

Chinese tourism provided partial motivation for the protest. As for Hong Kong, while its

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Umbrella Movement began as a campaign for civil nominations for the democratic election of

Hong Kong’s chief executive, its mutating identity politics and eventual partial devolution into attacks on Chinese tourists and traders suggest that an anti-tourism backlash played a large implicit motivational role. By looking at both examples, it becomes quickly evident that the proposition that tourism is necessarily an instrument of rapprochement or reconciliation is untenable at best, or worse, perverse and absurd.

While this chapter will briefly discuss the spatiality and chronology of the Hong Kong

Umbrella Movement, it will go into considerably less detail about it than the Sunflower

Movement because a similarly granular level of detail would distract from the general Taiwan focus of this dissertation. Also, there is less need for such recounting as, relative to Taiwan,

Hong Kong’s movement has been much more thoroughly recorded and analyzed by international media and, given the number of active researchers evident at the occupation sites, more scholarly accounts are forthcoming. That having been noted, following an account of Taiwan’s movement, a focused account of Hong Kong’s anti-tourist demonstrations and discourse both before and after the Umbrella Movement is included to provide additional context.

7.1 An account of the Taiwan Sunflower Movement

On the evening of March 18, 2014, the assembly hall of Taiwan’s Legislative Yuan was stormed by a motley crew led by students from the “Black Island Nation Youth,” a loosely organized student political action committee formed the previous year. The several hundred

214 occupiers repelled police efforts to eject them, escorted out the few officers on duty, and barricaded the doors with seats tied together with rope.

The direct trigger for the protest was the perceived flouting of parliamentary due process by Taiwan’s ruling party, the KMT, in its efforts to push a major trade deal with China through the legislature. Indeed, on Monday, March 17, legislators from the KMT reneged on a June 2013 agreement with the opposition party, the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP), for an item-by- item review of the Cross-Strait Services Trade Agreement. Instead of conducting the promised review, KMT legislator Chang Ching-Chung, the convener of the committee, unilaterally declared that the review period had already ended and that the bill would be submitted to a plenary session on March 21. Had this legally questionable process not been interrupted, it was all but certain that the KMT-dominated legislature would have passed the bill for a signature from President Ma Ying-jeou, who had championed its passage.

The CSSTA was negotiated and signed behind closed doors in Shanghai on July 21,

2013, by representatives from Taiwan’s quasi-state agency, the Straits Exchange Foundation, and its Chinese counterpart, the Association for Relations Across the Taiwan Strait. The CSSTA would open eighty sectors of China’s economy to Taiwanese investment, and sixty-four sectors of Taiwan’s economy to Chinese investment, including hotels, tourism, printing, and medical services. The CSSTA followed the Economic Cooperation Framework Agreement (ECFA), a broad agreement for increased economic integration between Taiwan and China, signed in 2009

(Hsieh 2011). Both the ECFA and the CSSTA were touted by the Ma administration as major boons for Taiwan’s economy, although the government’s own Chung Hua Institute for Economic

Research estimated the latter would bring only a 0.025–0.034 percent increase in Taiwan’s annual gross domestic product (GDP) (Chung-hua Institute for Economic Research 2013).

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The CSSTA includes provisions that would have allowed an unlimited number of mainland Chinese companies to incorporate sole proprietorships, joint ventures, partnerships and branches for “sightseeing” (guangguang, 觀光) hotels and restaurants, and food provision businesses. It would have permitted up to three “commercial presences” of mainland Chinese travel agencies to set up in Taiwan’s market, including permission for Chinese companies to compete with Taiwanese companies in Taiwan’s domestic tourism market. Going in the other direction, the agreement would have allowed an unlimited number of Taiwanese entities to conduct similar activities in mainland China (Straits Exchange Foundation and Association for

Relations Across the Straits 2013). According to Yao Ta-kuang, the head of the Travel Agent

Association of the ROC, Taiwan’s major tourism trade industry associations generally supported the agreement, even if they acknowledged the potential competitive threat to domestic tour operators (Interview, 28 January 2015).

Anti-CSSTA activists decried the treaty’s secretive negotiation as undemocratic and under-the table, “black box” (heixiang, 黑箱) politics, and expressed particular concern for the impact that greater Chinese penetration in Taiwan’s economy would have on the island’s small- and medium-sized businesses, media culture, and freedom of expression. Advocates of

Taiwanese sovereignty and democracy argued that this trade bill had ominous implications for national security and self-determination. Others suggested that a president who had been polled months earlier at an astonishingly low 9 percent approval rating had no mandate to push for such major legislation. Throughout, Ma was the prime personal target of discontent, as not only the president but also the chairman of the KMT, able to use party discipline mechanisms to force legislators to cast approval votes for the bill.

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In early March, fearing that the KMT’s legislative majority would guarantee the passage of the bill, representatives from various sectors of Taiwan’s civil society, including students and nongovernmental organization (NGO) leaders, staged regular planning meetings under the umbrella of a coalition group, the Defend Taiwan Democracy Platform. As March 18 drew near, the Platform’s conveners planned a series of press conferences and rallies in front of the

Legislative Yuan. This approach was deemed insufficient by several participants in the meeting, who called for more aggressive direct action. This suggestion was not vetoed, but with the nearly fifty people present in these planning meetings and the possibility of leaks, conveners asked that such planning happen off the premises. “We told them we wouldn’t object, but they should talk about it somewhere else,” said Ms. Lu, a lawyer and academic present in the final meeting before the occupation.8

The campaign to enter the building began at the next night’s rally. Entrance routes to the buildings had earlier been scouted by Black Island-affiliated students, who later attended the rally and shared directions to climb over walls or through underpasses by word of mouth or smartphone messaging. Like the near-passage of the CSSTA itself, the sudden plan to storm the building caught some protesters unaware. Said Mr. Lin, a sixty-six-year-old retired electronics importer who joined the first wave of the occupation and ended up heading waste management throughout the occupation, “I was just at the rally to show support and ended up getting swept in with the crowd.” A gate and window were broken to clear a pathway inside, but other property

8 This name has been changed.

217 damage was kept to a minimum, with student leaders continually reminding the crowds not to vandalize.

The few policemen inside the complex were quickly overwhelmed, and a later directive by Premier Jiang Yi-huah to send in riot police was ignored by Wang Jin-pyng, the long-serving speaker of the Legislative Yuan. Wang, a KMT heavyweight with a tense relationship with

President Ma Ying-jeou, was to be a key behind-the-scenes player in the occupation. As the man legally responsible for the Legislative Yuan’s day-to-day operations, Wang snubbed Ma’s call for an emergency meeting the next day to end the occupation, and soon promised that protesters would not be removed by force.

Tensions between Ma and Wang, two of the KMT’s most powerful politicians, go back several election cycles and had worsened considerably in the previous year. In September 2013,

Ma accused Wang of influence peddling and attempted to remove him from the KMT. As an unelected party-list legislator, a loss of party membership would have forced Wang from his position as Legislative Yuan speaker. Wang filed a counter-suit which still remained unresolved when the protest began, keeping the Legislative Yuan in a “state of temporary anarchy,” as Ms.

Lu, the activist lawyer-academic, put it. However, on March 19, just one day after the protest began, and almost certainly for unrelated reasons, Wang received a legal verdict maintaining his

KMT membership. With it, he maintained his control over the Legislative Yuan. Ma’s overreach, not just with the CSSTA but within his own party, immediately seemed a disastrous tactical error, allowing an unlikely tacit alliance between Wang and the occupiers, to the chagrin of Ma’s wing of the KMT.

By the time I entered the Legislative Yuan on March 19, the central building was already loosely guarded by an emergent system of student security teams and patiently confused police,

218 supported by sympathetic opposition legislators still afforded the legal right to bring in guests.

The DPP legislators who showed up first to ostensibly defend occupiers against possible police violence and later to begin serving in door-guarding shifts, including Hsiao Bi-khim and Yu

Mei-nu, were themselves veterans of past Taiwanese democratic and feminist movements.

Usually reading magazines and showing signs of fatigue, the legislators did little but help people come and go as students needed. Members of the key civic groups that soon entered, including ad hoc volunteer medical and legal teams, as well as food supply and technical support crews led by students, were regularly waved in by legislators, as was I on several passes. Despite numerous attempts to paint the occupation as a DPP plot, the opposition party’s passive role was illustrated by a (probably apocryphal) joke: a certain well-known student supposedly asked party list legislator Tuan Yi-Kang to buy him a pack of cigarettes on his way back for a door guard shift.

The few other DPP politicians inside the building on the first week came in to take personal photos or escort journalists, and then made a rapid exit as Taiwan’s paparazzi media chased after them. Party officials also quickly passed a resolution forbidding the display of any DPP signs or logos within the occupation zone.

The broad geopolitical implications of a protest against ostensible KMT collusion with

China were not lost on 1989 protest leaders Wang Dan and Wu’er Kaixi, both long-based in Taiwan, who briefly entered the Legislative Yuan on March 19 to announce their support for the students. Less high-profile inside the Legislative Yuan were several locally enrolled students from Hong Kong and mainland China, who had entered the building with their classmates. “Yes, I’m not supposed to be here, but I’m curious what this is all about—this couldn’t happen in China!” said a 19 year-old female finance student from Henan. After these first two days, I was unable to identify any other PRC nationals within the building, but one art

219 student from Hong Kong volunteered inside throughout the entire occupation and later returned to Hong Kong to join the early days of the Umbrella Movement.

Complicating the controversy over the pact was the earlier ambiguous stance of the DPP, which, caught between the oft-clashing interests of cross-strait capital and their grassroots electoral calculus, has long struggled to build an intra-party consensus on China issues. While the DPP had demanded a thorough review of the CSSTA, the mainstream of the party had declined to take a strong position against the treaty. Furthermore, rumors of personal or business relationships between prominent DPP figures and Chinese business political interests were not uncommon, especially for politicians who had proved willing to make compromise to boost industrial sectors including tourism and hospitality (Lin 2012a).

Despite the media’s initial focus on minor property damage, domestic public opinion quickly swung in favor of the movement’s call for the CSSTA to be sent back for review, with a majority of television poll respondents expressing disapproval of government conduct and support for the students’ demands (TVBS Poll Center 2014). The courtyard and streets outside the Legislative Yuan soon swelled with increasingly sophisticated participation from new student and civic groups, including food distribution networks, blankets and raincoats for nights with cold and wet weather, mobile recharging and Wi-Fi access centers, and free speech zones.

Professors from across Taiwan held outdoor classes in the streets surrounding the Legislature, and a tent city with distinctive neighborhoods began to coalesce.

After a local florist donated a case of fresh sunflowers to the front lines of the protest— later said to represent the illumination of the “black box”—the growing movement had found its symbol. While some activists were quick to embrace the flower, handing them out both inside and outside the building, others dissented. “We don’t need some cute flower to represent us,”

220 said June, a third-year politics major, garbed in all black, who had joined the nascent security team.

The Soil that Sprouted the Sunflowers

While the Sunflower occupation of the Legislative Yuan quickly dominated newspaper headlines and television news cycles, it was not the first protest against the CSSTA. While these earlier, smaller actions had largely been ignored, they were spearheaded by students and civil activists who first gained notice in the anti-Media Monopoly campaign of 2012 and the short- lived Wild Strawberry Movement of 2008. These movements shared not only members and tactics with the Sunflowers, but also deep misgivings about the political and economic relationships that the Ma administration and its allied business interests were forging with China.

The Wild Strawberries were a response to the KMT’s handling of the visit by China’s representative Chen Yunlin in November 2008, in which symbols not only of Taiwanese national identity, but even of the Republic of China, the official name of Taiwan’s state apparatus, were forcibly removed so as not to offend Chen. Students complained that their free speech rights were being trampled to placate an authoritarian neighbor bent on annexation and called for an apology from the president and the police. They also demanded the abolition of the Assembly and Parades Act, a martial law-era relic which has long been used to suppress popular protest, and was later invoked against Sunflower affiliates. The Wild Strawberries were so-named both to invoke a connection with the Wild Lily Student Movement of 1990, which successfully pressured then-president Lee Teng-Hui to accelerate democratic institutional reforms, and to subvert a popular stereotype of Taiwanese millennials as “strawberries”—sweet and beautiful but weak and easily bruised. Ultimately, the movement fizzled out after a small, several month

221 occupation of Liberty Square, the site of the earlier Wild Lily Movement and still home to a monument to Chiang Kai-shek.

The Anti-Media Monopoly Campaign, which followed in 2012, included Wild

Strawberry activists and attracted a far wider base of support (Harrison 2012). The campaign was a response to the attempt of the Want Want China Times group, a food and media conglomerate with extensive interests in China and a clear pro-China editorial slant, to gain a controlling share in the Apple Daily and Next Media group, two of the few remaining major media outlets to remain critical of China (and which would later play a critical role in the Hong Kong Umbrella

Movement). The Anti-Media Monopoly campaign successfully blocked Want Want’s purchase.

With its sophisticated social media campaigns and cooperation with Taiwan’s civil-minded academic sector, the Anti-Media Monopoly campaign perhaps served as a practice run for the decentralized, networked forms of protest later utilized by the Sunflowers. It also made media darlings of its convener, Lin Fei-fan, a politics graduate student at National Taiwan University

(NTU); Chen Wei-ting, a sociology graduate student at National Tsinghua University; and

Huang Kuo-Chang, a legal scholar at Academia Sinica, who resurfaced as the most visible spokespeople of the Sunflower Movement.

Occupied Days and Nights

Emboldened by popular support and joined by scholars and civil activists, occupation spokespeople soon expanded their demands. With legal scholar Huang Kuo-chang, lawyer- activist Lai Chung-chiang, and representatives from the Taiwan Association for Human Rights and other NGOs taking increasingly assertive strategic and logistical roles, to the dismay of some more radical students who complained of increasing marginalization, the demand for a review of the CSSTA instead became a demand for the government to draft and implement a legislative

222 mechanism for the review of cross-strait agreements. Huang argued that as current law, based on the Republic of China constitution adopted in 1949, still treats the “Mainland Area” and “Taiwan

Area” as separate jurisdictions within the same country, there is no proper legal procedure for review of a treaty-type agreement like the CSSTA. He maintained that short of drafting a new constitution—a very tall order—a supervisory mechanism would at least provide more public oversight for the drafting and passage of cross-strait agreements.

Another Sunflower demand was a public audience with President Ma, who instead sent

Premier Jiang Yi-huah as his representative for a televised public meeting with student spokesperson Lin Fei-fan on the street in front of the Legislative Yuan on March 22. During a tense ten-minute stand-off, after Jiang affirmed that he was unauthorized to accede to protester demands, Lin thanked Jiang for his visit and sent him away.

The lack of a personal response from the president led to an increasingly desperate mood inside the Legislative Yuan. Late that night, as some students attempted to gratefully sleep in the fresh sleeping bags that had just been donated through NGOs and handed out by an ad hoc supply team, a Chinese language education student from Tainan complained to me, “If we don’t take more radical steps immediately, this will all have been pointless.” He said he had attempted to voice his opinion to the increasingly insulated , who he complained seemed uninterested in input from people they did not already know.

Although that student from Tainan may have felt his voice was being ignored, enough people shared his sentiment to take action. On Sunday night, March 23, a group of students and activists stormed the Executive Yuan, Taiwan’s cabinet building. Their connection to and coordination with the occupation’s core leadership was unclear even to people on the front lines of the campaign. “I thought it was being led by Black Island, but now I’m not sure,” said Yi-

223 shan, an NTU law student and Wild Strawberry veteran, immediately after being carried out of the building by riot police. A kilometer away, within the Legislative Yuan, Chen Wei-ting expressed solidarity with activists at the Executive Yuan but claimed that they were operating independently. Whatever the case, what is clear is that, as on the night of March 18, many of the participants joined in an ad hoc fashion, loosely coordinated via dynamic social media and mobile messaging platforms.

While the Executive Yuan campaign was a startling, risky, and arguably poorly planned move, its quick and violent suppression by riot police under the order of Premier Jiang elevated the movement to a national crisis. Over 150 activists were injured and many hospitalized. A student leader of the campaign, Dennis Wei, was arrested and ultimately released from detention, only to face charges later. Despite the failure to hold the building, indelible images of bloodied students may have played into the protesters hands by raising public sympathy. “Those are our kids and even if they shouldn’t be occupying government buildings indefinitely, they shouldn’t be hurt,” said a civil servant from the Tourism Bureau, reflecting a common opinion (Interview,

24 March 2014). Though the Executive Yuan campaign ended with mixed results for both sides, the occupation of the Legislative Yuan continued for several more weeks.

The Legislative Yuan Reterritorialized as the Office of an Ad Hoc Opposition

While the first days inside the occupied Legislative Yuan were chaotic, with police eviction attempts, power and water cuts, and food shortages, the space soon regularized. While few of the alternately exhausted and elated occupiers fully trusted Speaker Wang Jin-Pyng’s

March 20 promise not to remove them by force, increasing public support for the action, improvised improvements to the air circulation system and other building infrastructure, and an awareness that the space may not be theirs forever led occupiers to settle into more regular

224 workflows and ad hoc teams. By the second week, the space was increasingly bureaucratic and efficient, arguably more so than during regular sessions, which have long been internationally notorious for televised fistfights and shouting matches between legislators.

Enabling all of this to take place was a growing security team, which had designated crews to guard each of the Legislative Yuan’s barricaded inner and outer doors. With police guarding the building, permission to enter the outer doors could only be granted by sitting legislators who did not recognize most people attempting to enter and would follow the lead of the student security crew. Volunteer security teams were trained to inspect bags for weapons, tear gas, or other items that might be used to endanger people inside the building. They also attempted to filter out plainclothes policemen, who, according to security team leader Huang

Yen-ju, a social worker, continuously attempted to infiltrate the building. The tense interaction between police and occupiers grew increasingly relaxed after Speaker Wang’s announcement that occupiers would not be removed by force, and with increased volunteer training and courtesy. Upstairs on the second floor of the building, where sensitive strategy and work team meetings took place, the internal security teams were a much more freewheeling affair.

Continental philosophy study sessions, sketching workshops, and even massage circles kept these students awake during the late hours.

In the increasingly relaxed atmosphere, other work teams with specific areas and tasks consolidated quickly. Behind the speaker’s podium was the information team (zixun zu, 資訊

族), broadly responsible for day-to-day control of the entire site. To their left was the medical station, continually staffed by rotating crews of volunteer off-duty Western and traditional

Chinese physicians, nurses, psychologists, and occupational therapists. Many of these volunteers also conducted spot temperature checks and hand sanitizing rounds throughout the building.

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To the right of the podium was the media team, largely staffed by NTU Law School students, and including translators and activist-journalists who produced multilingual copy for

“official” and affiliated movement Facebook pages, Twitter feeds, and e-mail lists. In front of the podium were various other teams, including gown-wearing pro bono human rights lawyers and law students, and a small crew coordinating outreach with student groups.

Adjacent to them was an art team curating the display of posters behind the podium and assembling new pieces made with donated materials, including a rapidly iterating Democracy

Altar directly behind the podium, which variously featured temple-style plaques, a pagoda made of cards hand-drawn by students from a Tainan girls’ high school, and a Guy Fawkes mask.

Elsewhere on the main floor was an entire row offered to television news crews who, in the absence of press conferences or other major announcements, would chase after anything that smelled like a story, including dripping air vents. Behind them were food, drink, and sleeping supplies stations. The upstairs mezzanine level was home to a volunteer crew providing live, narrated video feeds of the floor in Chinese, English, and Japanese. Around and in between all these spaces, when not “working,” students ate, slept, chatted, read, discussed, and caught up on their studies.

Water, coffee, and crackers donated directly by supporters were carried through the barricades and made freely available throughout the day. Work team volunteers would pick up lunch boxes at regularly announced intervals, and dispose of them in accordance with Taiwan’s sophisticated recycling standards. Waste coordination was headed by Mr. Lin, the amiable sixty- six-year-old retired electronics importer who had entered with the first wave of occupiers and quickly earned the affectionate Taiwanese-language title of Uncle (Abei). “These kids felt right

226 away like my own family. . . . No one else was taking care of clean-up yet, so it just seemed like the right thing to be doing,” he said.

The Capital District Reterritorialized as a Microcosm of Civil Society

As the occupied Legislative Yuan became an administrative center for the ad hoc opposition, with spatial demarcations between work teams, so too did the growing tent city outside subdivide into zones and districts with distinct characters that recapitulated wider

Taiwanese social structures. Underlying support for these temporary districts was provided by expanding security, supply (wuzi, 物資), and waste disposal teams who maintained uneven and occasionally strained communications and coordination with each other and with their counterparts inside the Legislative Yuan, who usually stayed behind rows of police and volunteer security.

Directly south of the Legislative Yuan, on East Road, was the highest-profile public area, featuring a stage, a public address system, rotating emcees, and a wide and free- flowing variety of speeches and musical performances. A long wall to the south of this new

“Town Square” became a sprawling canvas for flyers, posters, and other visual forms of protest.

Many of these artifacts were later collected by teams from Taiwan’s premiere public research institute, Academia Sinica, both for historical preservation and for use in future curated displays.

Both sides of this central area were flanked by tent and desk zones claimed, staffed, and inhabited by students from universities, including NTU, National Chengchi University, and

National Taiwan University of the Arts. The relative reputations of these institutions arguably declined with increasing distance from the center. Interspersed between these individual encampments were volunteer-staffed supply, security, and medical stations. With each

227 successive day, water, snacks, sleeping bags, toiletries, and portable toilets became increasingly available free of charge, made possible by donations of both supplies and money routed through affiliated NGOs.

One block south of Qingdao East Road, in the more sprawling encampments on

Road, a motley assortment of activities and activists converged. “It’s a Democracy Night

Market!” observed Pei-ling, an NTU graduate. Indeed, a few opportunistic profiteers had slipped in to sell politically themed t-shirts and books, but the vast majority of outlets offered free goods and services. These included a “Democracy Cafe,” with volunteer professional baristas brewing free-trade beans, and a “Liberty noodles” stand, both serving occupiers free of charge.

Nearby was the self-deprecatingly named Low Life Liberation Zone (jianmin jiefang qu,

賤民解放區), populated largely by students who had joined the occupation early but grown disaffected by its increasingly bureaucratic management. In a free-wheeling affair, the “Low

Lifes” experimented with decentered group discussion, singing, and other forms of interaction.

Conversations covered everything from the Paris Commune to Taiwan’s deferred postcoloniality. Conveners explained that they were not splittists, but that all leaders, even stars like Lin Fei-fan, must still be held accountable. Heated tactical debates dissolved into anything from Chilean revolutionary songs in Mandarin translation, accompanied by drums, guitars, and accordions, to costumed electronic dance parties.

Meanwhile, on South Road, bounding the western edge of the temporary autonomous zone, older pro-independence activists from the Referendum Alliance continued their nearly six continuous years of demonstrations calling for an amendment of Taiwan’s

“birdcage” referendum law, so-named because the voting threshold is so high that no

228 referendums have been passed since its drafting in 2003 by a KMT-dominated legislature.

Largely Taiwanese (Hoklo) speaking, this area became popular in the last days of the occupation as the original site of the “Intestine Flower” (Dachang hua, 大腸花) events, in which activists engaged in humorous, profanity-laced vents about their time on the frontlines, which proliferated island-wide even after the occupation ended.

From Occupation to Mass Rally to Exodus

As both occupiers and the Ma administration refused to budge, Chen Wei-ting and Lin

Fei-fan announced a major rally for Sunday, March 30. It turned out to be the largest nonpartisan, pro-democracy rally in Taiwan’s history. According to the organizers’ count, corroborated by The Diplomat and The Wall Street Journal, at least 350,000 protesters ended up swelling the streets in front of the Presidential Office with songs, speeches, and a call for the nation’s elected leadership to listen to demands of the students. Similar, smaller actions were held the same day in solidarity around the world, with images of pro-Sunflower demonstrators in

Los Angeles, Tokyo, Paris, Berlin. and beyond shared through live feeds with protesters in and outside the Legislative Yuan.

However, beyond overseas Taiwanese networks, reportage remained scarce outside of

Taiwan. International media attention remained focused on a missing Malaysian plane and a crisis in . Instead of waiting for reporters to arrive, activists promoted their cause through new social media outlets, including an “official” Sunflower Movement Facebook page sharing news in fourteen languages, including English, Chinese, Japanese, Arabic, Polish, and

Portuguese, translated by a team both physically sited within the Legislative Yuan and augmented with overseas volunteers (Chao 2014). The Facebook page gained over 50,000

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“likes” in its first several days, and was quickly linked to an English-language Sunflower

Movement Twitter account and a parallel Japanese-language stream. Other breaking stories were narrated through loosely affiliated new outfits, including Taiwan Voice, a Facebook channel.

Another group 4am.tw, raised enough money from 3,621 donors on Taiwanese crowdfunding site FlyingV to purchase a full-page ad in . Quietly undergirding all of these online campaigns was g0v, a group of computer-savvy political activists advocating transparent and flat organization. g0v members entered the Legislative Yuan in the early days of the occupation, took responsibility for maintaining the building’s Internet access, and placed video cameras to keep occupiers visible and accountable to the public. These video cameras supported live feeds on the g0v.today website, a sophisticated, collaborative online multimedia workspace, which also included multilingual announcement and meeting transcripts, and discussion forums.

As the Sunflower protests continued, counter-protests were planned. On March 29, the day before the major Sunflower rally, the KMT organized a small “Carnation Movement” rally, asking mothers to tell their children to respect authority and come home. In an almost self- parodic turn, Chang An-le (aka “White Wolf”), the leader of the "Peaceful Reunification Party" and a reputed boss of the Bamboo Union gangster mob who served prison time for felony convictions in the United States, called a press conference expressing support for pro-China government policy and threatening to enter the Legislative Yuan on April 1. Security was tight and tension high that day, with Chang arriving on a truck followed by a 500-strong team of supporters who were spotted shoving Sunflowers. A telling moment came during Chang’s speech: As he yelled, “You don’t deserve to be Chinese!” in an attempt to insult the activists, he was answered with smiles and shouts, “We are Taiwanese!”

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As the battle continued, both sides showed no signs of compromise. To resolve the crisis,

President Ma offered to meet with protest leaders privately in his office, a move that was rebuffed by Lin Fei-fan and Chen Wei-ting, who insisted that such a meeting be open and televised. The impasse was only broken when Legislative Speaker Wang Jin-pyng, flanked by his occasional ally of convenience, DPP legislative leader Ker Chien-ming, visited the

Legislative Yuan on April 6 and promised that the CSSTA would not be passed without review and without earlier passage of some kind of cross-strait regulatory supervision mechanism. KMT spokespeople expressed shock and strong criticism of Wang’s declaration, which apparently had not been approved by the party. While many students still found Wang’s pledge unsatisfactory, a decision to clean up and evacuate the Legislative Yuan on April 10 was soon made in secret by core organizers. Announced the day after Wang’s visit, the news stunned many protesters who felt they had not been consulted and did not want to give up their occupation of a major government building, which they saw as their only bargaining chip. “These leaders are just as anti-democratic as the Ma government,” said an education graduate student, who angrily left the

Legislative Yuan upon hearing the news to rejoin the more radical splinter group, the Low Life

Liberation Zone. Before leaving on April 10 in a carefully choreographed march strewn with real-life sunflowers, students cleaned up the space and invited assessors to estimate costs for property repairs. Many meetings took place both inside and outside the Legislative Yuan, including a “civil assembly” on the final day, in an attempt to salve the wounds of disaffected protesters and consolidate support for further action.

Aftermath: A Scattering and Sprouting of the Seeds

Although the CSSTA was placed on ice, widespread protests continued to rock Taipei even after the occupation ended. As they did during the earlier social movements that hastened

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Taiwan’s democratization and birthed the DPP, police blocked central Taipei streets for the next several weeks with steel and razor wire barriers. On Facebook, this policy was popularly mocked as the Ma administration’s “International Barbed Wire Exhibition.” Even the 228 Peace Park, a park near the Presidential Office so-named to commemorate the 1947 KMT massacre of

Taiwanese civilians, was bisected by the spiked metal barriers.

As a spring and summer of social movements gave way to an autumn and winter of electioneering, the Sunflowers proliferated, splintered, and collaborated as they danced awkwardly, cooperatively, and combatively with the DPP. The DPP itself emerged as an opposition party built by an earlier generation of social activists, but after gaining power, its members were often criticized not only for being out of touch with conditions on the street, but also for being ineffective administrators and campaigners. Some in the leadership took the message to heart. “They [student activists] could probably run a better campaign than the DPP,” admitted Tsai Ying-wen (Chao 2014), who emerged as the undisputed DPP chair in the wake of the protests. Several Black Island activists were indeed soon hired by DPP youth committees and courted by local mayoral candidates. Others remained cagey, especially as several prominent figures in the DPP, looking towards the November 2014 mid-term elections, renewed their call for the party to freeze the pro-independence plank of its founding charter. “If they do so,” said

Chen Wei-ting on Facebook, “they should prepare to be replaced.”

In the post-Sunflower twilight of his presidency, Ma Ying-Jeou’s dream of a “peace treaty” with China based on the “One China Principle”—that both territories belong to the same country—evaporated, especially after China President Xi Jinping’s September 2014 reiteration that the “One Country, Two Systems” formulation is the only one acceptable to the PRC. In light of rising unrest in Hong Kong, the showcase of the supposedly successful “One Country, Two

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Systems” scheme, the two leaders’ collective cross-strait achievement may be remembered to date not as political unification, but an inadvertent unification, however temporary, of the

Taiwan independence movement and the democratic left, and the rapid electoral collapse of the

KMT.

Any doubts about the Sunflower Movement’s alignment with the electorate were put to rest when the KMT suffered a landslide defeat in the “nine in one” midterm local elections on

November 29, 2014 (Huang 2014). Well-funded KMT mayoral candidates lost their traditional northern strongholds of Taipei, Taoyuan, and , turning the conventional wisdom about

Taiwan’s electoral geography on its head. Popular DPP incumbents were handily re-elected in the south. The DPP earned 47.6 percent of the nationwide vote compared to the KMT’s 40.7 percent, not including Taipei, which elected an independent tacitly allied with the DPP-led “pan- green” coalition. This gave the opposition party significant momentum for the 2016 presidential and legislative elections.

Shortly following the 2014 elections, a group of social movement veterans and Sunflower leaders, including Huang Kuo-chang, formed the New Power Party. Generally cooperating with the DPP by not running head to head with them in most districts, yet running on a more stridently pro-independence and pro-social justice platform, it went on to win 5 legislative seats in the January 16, 2016 combined legislative and presidential elections. Tsai Ying-wen of the

DPP was easily elected as president, as expected, with 56.12% of the vote. The DPP captured 68 seats in the Legislative Yuan, marking their first-ever legislative majority, and the first time the

KMT ever held a minority in the ROC Legislative Yuan (Hsiao 2016). At the time of writing, the

CSSTA remained on ice pending passage of legislative review mechanisms for cross-Strait agreements.

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A number of academic commentators claimed that the Sunflower Movement was the cause of this epochal electoral turnaround. Others suggested that the KMT loss was likelier due to poor economic performance under Ma’s KMT, which had hitched its wagon to a slowing

Chinese economy that was unevenly distributing its benefits on Taiwan, even as tourism numbers surged. Post-Sunflower Movement national identity polling shows an uptick in Taiwan identification, particularly among younger demographics, which also polled heavily against the

KMT (Taiwan Indicators Survey Research 2015). While part of a long-term trend, this effect appears to have accelerated following the Sunflower Movement.

7.2 Chinese tourism as a driver of the Taiwan Sunflower Movement

While tourism provisions constituted a major part of the CSSTA, these attracted less notice from Sunflower activists than those for other sectors such as publishing, medical, and telecommunications services. In my dozens of formal and informal interviews with activists within and around the Legislative Yuan, very few people mentioned it as a major motivating factor. That having been said, tourism was acknowledged by even the highest-profile activists.

During his court trial on March 25, 2015, protest leader Chen Wei-ting asked, “What would

Taiwan be like now if we hadn't organized those protests? All these industries—publishing, telecoms, tourism—would have been bought up by large Chinese interests” (Gold 2015). But more potent than the possible effects on tourism or even more sensitive sectors was the perception of the legally dubious near-passage of the CSSTA as a demonstration of unaccountable “black box” KMT-CCP collusion. Sunflowers had successfully painted this as an

234 existential threat to Taiwan’s democracy, de facto independence, and viability as a future nation- state. These are of course issues in constant question in the government and tourism industry’s ambiguous performances of Taiwan as a part of China.

I would like to suggest here that the Sunflower Movement and the ensuing regime change has actually spared Chinese tourists, at least temporarily, from the otherwise likely attention of pro-Taiwan independence demonstrators. In a paradoxical fashion, by stoking the fears of independence activists, who were largely successful in the Sunflower Movement, tourism’s very instrumentality has therefore neutralized its own potency as a force of PRC state territorialization. As the electorate recalibrated and an opposition party prepared to take power, tourism continued much as it did before the Sunflower Movement, but the state-scale stakes shifted.

While Taiwanese activists have counter-demonstrated against pro-PRC demonstrators, in front of Taipei 101, for example, as described in Chapter 4, they have not targeted Chinese tourists with any kind of sustained direct action campaign. If anything, these pro-independence demonstrators, exemplified by the Taiwan Independence Revolutionary Army’s convener, Lai

Feng-cheng, attempted to show that that they were “sane and dignified” and non-violent, as noted in Chapter 4. Instead of targeting Chinese tourists as (un)witting proxies of the PRC, activists instead aimed at the policies and legislative practices of the KMT, who were portrayed as supporting the CCP to the detriment of the Taiwanese populace. These actions also further radicalized students and other members of civil society who might have otherwise remained apathetic or weakly supported the DPP, whose politicians took an initially ambiguous stance about the CSSTA in part due to the concerns of constituent business interests.

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On cross-Strait policy questions, DPP politicians had been pushed from all sides, including from their constituents within the tourism industry. For example, Kaohsiung Mayor

Chen Chu, who was herself imprisoned decades earlier for participation in pro-democracy movements (Jacobs 2012), visited China in 2013 in part to stimulate more tourist arrivals after earlier politically-motivated slowdowns. The previous year, about 60% of international tourists in Kaohsiung came from the PRC, twice as high a percentage as the 2012 national average (Lin

2012a). ’s trip was motivated by previous controversies in which tourists and the tourism industry were implicated. In 2009, following a visit from the Dalai Lama, and the

Kaohsiung Film Festival’s screening of a documentary about exiled Uighur Muslim leader

Rebiya Kadeer, who the PRC has labeled a terrorist, PRC tourist numbers collapsed. Occupancy rates at Kaohsiung hotels dropped from 60% to 30%, and department store and restaurant revenues plummeted. This led to “heavy pressure from local tourism operators” upon Mayor

Chen (Chan 2009). A goodwill tour of Taiwanese legislators leaders was launched to patch up relations, and public funding was cut for the Kaohsiung Film Festival (Lin 2012b).

Such pro-tourism “goodwill visits” and ambiguous cross-Strait economic policy-making by DPP politicians led to Sunflower suspicions not only about KMT collusion with the PRC, but the threat of possible DPP collusion as well. Tsai Ying-wen’s successful campaign, with its promise to “maintain the status quo,” relied on a certain degree of trust from more radical

Taiwanese activists that she would not betray their interests. Yet, in September 2015, Tsai herself had earlier promised at travel industry trade event not to cut tourist numbers, stating,

“Many people think the DPP does not welcome Chinese tourists. This is definitely not true.” She did call for improved tour quality and a proportional increase in independent tourist arrivals, a position that was fairly similar to her then-opponent in the KMT, Hung Hsiu-chu (Yeh et al.

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2015). Tsai’s mildly supportive response suggested that the PRC’s use of tourism as a political and economic incentive for cooperation had already achieved some degree of success even with more cautious DPP politicians, but Tsai did not champion Chinese tourism in a fashion similar to

Ma in his previous campaigns. Instead, she suggested that Taiwan should diversify its economic partnerships beyond China, and quickly began exploring trade agreements with other countries, including Japan.

In the first few weeks after Tsai’s landslide election, rumors circulated widely that China would cut its tourist numbers in retaliation for the Taiwanese electorate not selecting their preferred candidate. Indeed, the possibility of this tactic had been commented on by a former high-level Ma cabinet official and political scientist as a possible retaliation for Tsai’s likely election (Private communication, 5 January 2016). The rumors traveled throughout Taiwan’s mediascape, prompting concern from both government officials and industry leaders and ultimately a denial from the Tourism Bureau. Tourist numbers had certainly dropped ahead of the election—a Beijing official implied that tourists were choosing to stay away due to the

“highly politicized atmosphere” (Lee 2016). Whether or not this was due to tourist “choice” or state or corporate policy is hard to determine, but it does recall earlier presidential elections in which tourist numbers were kept down and return flights from China to Taiwan were heavily discounted, leading to broad speculation that the PRC was encouraging China-based Taiwanese businesspeople to return home to vote, presumably for the KMT (Kastner 2011). Nevertheless, tourist numbers had rebounded somewhat by late January, and the Tourism Bureau announced publicly that China was not officially cutting tourist numbers (Chen, Shu, and Wu 2016), despite continuing rumors of future informal cuts.

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In sum, the successful presidential candidate of an independence-leaning party did not make Chinese tourism a major campaign issue. When asked, she was generally supportive of it.

This contrasts with her predecessor Ma’s championing of Chinese tourism. It is also strikingly different from Hong Kong, where even some pro-Beijing politicians have campaigned to limit the number of Chinese tourists for fear of further stoking pro-localization sentiment. The following section will discuss this in more detail.

7.3 An account of the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement

While Hong Kong’s protest action was proposed much farther in advance, contingent factors including an unexpected police tear gas attack led it to be far less spatially and politically centralized than initially planned. As with Taiwan’s Sunflowers, the major initial momentum was produced by students loosely affiliated with civic activists. The coordination between

Occupy Central with Peace and Love (OCLP), the Hong Kong Federation of Students (HKFS), and Scholarism, the highest profile groups, was spotty at best, leading to several miscommunications and confusion about timing and tactics.

Occupy Central with Peace and Love, a group led by two professors and one reverend, had initially proposed a protest for civil nominations to start on October 1, 2014. Scholarism, a high school-student group led by Joshua Wong, who had gained fame during the successful anti-

MNE campaign (Morris and Vickers 2015), and HKFS, a university student group, carried out class boycotts ahead of this date. On September 27, Wong and other students climbed the gates of what they dubbed “Civic Square,” a courtyard adjoining the Hong Kong’s government offices,

238 and got arrested. Their arrests prompted further demonstrator turn-out, leading to the police firing 93 tear gas canisters. The chaotic scene shocked many Hong Kongers and brought many more protesters into the street in support of students.

Just as an action nominally instigated by the student-led Black Island Nation Youth

Alliance blossomed into the Sunflower Movement, a name not of its initiators choosing, Hong

Kong’s “Umbrella Movement” was so-named by an English Twitter user for the everyday tool that demonstrators wielded while withstanding tear gas, sweltering sun, and pounding rain.

Slogans that uncannily resembled Taiwan’s, apart from the place name, “We are all Hong Kong

People,” “Save your own Hong Kong,” soon proliferated in the sprawling on and offline spaces of Hong Kong’s movement.

OCLP launched its protest ahead of schedule to capitalize on student momentum. As protesters flooded into the area and grew the protest site, Civic Square remained the closest thing to the movement’s spatial center. The first-aid station of that initial protest site, later dispersed by the police tear gas attack, was quickly reclaimed and converted into a makeshift Umbrella

Shrine. This center, unlike the Legislative Yuan, however, was not an occupied building that could be held. The surrounding street occupation quickly spread not only into major nearby street arteries running through major commercial business and shopping districts, including

Causeway Bay, and also slipped across Victoria Harbor to Kowloon’s dense shopping-residential

Mong Kok neighborhood. Arguably like the March 23 riot police attack on students at the

Executive Yuan in Taipei, the unexpected tear gas assault by police pushed much of the public in favor of demonstrators for a time, with polls showing HKFS briefly becoming the most recognized political group in the territory (Hong Kong University Public Opinion Program

2014).

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For the first week after the tear gas attack, several long boulevards on Hong Kong Island extending from Admiralty to Causeway Bay were blocked to traffic and filled largely with black- shirt wearing students. Perhaps counter-intuitively for student encampments, the mood, while inspired and idealistic, remained severe, reflecting the strategic stakes of a site near government headquarters, as well as the memory of police violence. The Mong Kok site, while smaller than the island-side encampment, quickly drew a wider range of ages and social classes and developed a more festive and expressive atmosphere. In this respect, the occupied spaces in

Admiralty somewhat resembled Qingdao East Road, the street facing Taiwan’s Legislative

Yuan, while Mong Kok, even if separated from the initial protest site by a body of water, more resembled the sprawling and experimental Jinan Road encampments one block down.

After the outburst of the first week, the movement condensed and evolved into three distinct occupations: Admiralty, Mong Kok, and Causeway Bay, in order of size. Causeway Bay, a commercial district popular with Chinese tourists that is separated but walkable from

Admiralty, turned out to be the smallest but longest-lasting occupation. Occupation residents stated clearly in interviews that Causeway Bay’s importance was its visibility to Chinese tourists, as Admiralty is not a tourist area, there was a news blackout in China during the early days of the protests, Chinese tour group visas were ostensibly cancelled (RTHK 2014), and Causeway Bay is extremely popular with independent Chinese tourists. “It’s important that we stay here to sway their hearts and minds, since they’ll go back to China afterwards” said a 24 year-old philosophy

240 graduate student (Interview, November 12).

Figure 9: Child in the Admiralty encampment. Author photo.

Much more than in the Sunflower Movement, Chinese tourists were frequently evident at protest sites. In my interviews, they expressed a wide variety of opinions about the movement,

241 about Hong Kong’s relationship with China, and about democracy. Just to sketch the range of opinions and personalities around my tent in Admiralty: A 59 year-old man from Shanghai who flew just to witness and photograph all three protest sites said:

I heard about this before it happened, while OCLP was still being planned. I went over the , read Epoch Times, New Tang Dynasty, dissident media… I grew up in their [CCP] regime of lies. Weren't they all about class struggle? Then they did reform and opening, and we're even poorer while they get richer and richer and claim all the country's resources and industry. We haven't gotten what we should (Interview, 2 November 2014).

Another man, originally from Beijing but residing in Hong Kong with a local wife, said

“This is the first genuine movement for democracy on Chinese soil.” Of course, not all tourists agreed. On the other side, a young man from Guangdong said, “We owe Hong Kong people nothing. They’re Chinese and should be grateful for all that we’ve give them.”

Although Causeway Bay was ostensibly maintained by protesters in part for its visibility to Chinese tourists, tourists there proved much harder to recruit for interviews, probably because of the spatiality of the site: While blocking traffic in the middle of a major thoroughfare, most of it was bounded by rope and banners that had been hung by occupiers. While many tourists stopped to take photos, few ventured through the clearly demarcated entrances, and few lingered around the busy streets outside long enough for interviews. This was distinct from the Admiralty and Mong Kok sites, where the borders between the spaces of the districts and the occupations were less clear. In Admiralty in particular, almost any Chinese tourist was there expressly because they wanted to visit the protest site.

On December 3, the original conveners of OCLP turned themselves in for arrest and were quickly released. After over two months of protest, with both the SAR administration and the

242 protestors unable to directly communicate or compromise, police and bailiffs eventually first cleared the Mong Kok and Admiralty occupations and made a number of arrests. The Causeway

Bay occupation was the last to go, on December 15.

7.4 Chinese tourism as a driver of the Hong Kong Umbrella Movement

Ultimately, the Umbrella Movement was in many ways a response to similar concerns that employed similar tactics, resembled, outscaled and outlasted Sunflower, even if it did not win political concessions. But unique to Hong Kong, and complementing and complicating student-led and broad-based campaigns such as the anti-Article 23 and anti-Moral and National

Education campaign was a series of anti-Chinese tourist protests that preceded and immediately following the Umbrella Movement.

As noted in Chapter 3, Hong Kong saw a number of small “anti-locust” protests staged against Chinese tourists in popular shopping districts before 2014. They articulated along with the printing and circulation of graphic depictions of tourists as locusts raiding Hong Kong’s limited resources (Garrett and Ho 2014). Nativist and localist movements thus articulated along and against the “China Tourism Wave” and included diverse ideological elements, including ethno-nationalist sentiment, and calls for , which are anathema to the

Beijing regime, as well as calls for more attention to structural economic adjustments and social welfare. These drew a significant amount of official government and media condemnation despite their relatively low attendance, which Garrett has argued has been deployed tactically as

243 a “moral panic” to assert hegemonic authority and justify the suppression of dissent (Garrett

2014).

An ideological focal point, read by some protesters and vociferously criticized by the regime, has been Lingnan University professor Chin Wan-kan’s book, On Hong Kong as a City

State (香港城邦論) (Chin 2011). Chin, who calls for independence for Hong Kong, treats

Chinese tourists and migrants as the most significant threat to Hong Kong’s society and institutions. Chin’s analysis is especially remarkable for its concern that democratic reforms within China would actually work against the possibility of increased autonomy or independence for Hong Kong, as such reforms would likely take a populist-nationalist turn, accelerating the

“mainlandization” of Hong Kong. This is a strikingly different interpretation than that of

Taiwan’s Ma administration, which argued that cross-Strait tourism would promote democracy in China, and this would serve Taiwan’s interests.

A much less strident survey article by City University of Hong Kong professor Thomas

Cheng confirm tourism and its backlash as an important causal factor of the emergence of

“radical politics”:

Naturally when more than 40 million tourists from Mainland China visit Hong Kong every year, the territory becomes very crowded, causing resentment among the locals. While tourism is a major pillar of the economy, most Hong Kong people do not feel they have benefitted directly from it. Instead they believe that this influx has caused considerable inconveniences. Commercial premises in districts most frequented by tourists tend to command higher rents, driving up prices and forcing the relocation of small businesses serving the locals. Mainland tourists' massive purchases of baby formula caused a shortage of supply for mothers with infants, resulting in an uproar and embarrassment for the HKSAR government. Some Hong Kong people are upset that workers at customers expensive luxury goods outlets treat Mandarin-speaking better (Cheng 2014, 219).

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Prior to the Umbrella Movement, these tensions were manifested in various episodes, including the “Liberation of Sheung Shui,” which targeted not only individual leisure tourists, but so-called “parallel traders” (shui huo, 水貨), smugglers who use the same “Individual

Visitation Scheme” permits to purchase commodities within Hong Kong for resale in China, causing significant disruption, goods shortages, and price increases for local residents. In fact, the parallel traders of Sheung Shui, near the border with mainland China, were the first to be called “locusts” by the local press (Bad Canto 2012). This action was a loosely organized campaign of netizens and garnered significant state opprobrium for the display of the British flag by some protestors, which was read as an insult to China. Other similar actions followed on

Canton Road, a more central area preferred by wealthier Mainland shoppers (Garrett 2014).

During the Umbrella Movement, the vast majority of young protesters I spoke with within the occupation zones opposed the “Mainlandization” of Hong Kong, supported increased autonomy, and even independence in many cases. They commented on the pleasant cultural familiarity and similarity of their fellow protestors. For example, “It’s nice to be here with each other with just Hong Kong people. I don’t think I’ve heard so much pure Cantonese in weeks,” said a twenty-six-year-old journalist. “This is like the Hong Kong of my youth,” said a forty- five-year-old salon worker. She clarified that she was referring not only to the high proportion of

“locals” but also to the general everyday qualities of civility, order, and hygiene that she did not associate with China.

Despite this, occupiers generally treated Chinese participants in the zones with a mix of excitement, ambivalence, and guarded respect. Thus, the Umbrella Movement itself, as well as

245 the resumption of these anti-tourist protests demonstrated that has proved doubly problematic in the CCP’s territorial program—not only did it spark and multiply protest, but for a time it even threatened also to incorporate tourists into even broader forms of protest.

After the end of the Umbrella Movement, targeted anti-tourist actions quickly recommenced, including new “liberations” of shopping areas in the New Territories, particularly

Yuen Long, Tuen Mun, and Sha Tin. These were bolstered by the emergence of several new nativist or localist groups, including Hong Kong Indigenous as well as the increased popularity that other allied localist groups like Civic Passion had gained via active participation during the

Umbrella Movement. Hong Kong Indigenous, in particular, was formed by two Umbrella activists who described the movement and its non-violent tactics as a “complete and utter failure” (Tsoi and Wong 2016). In this respect, the Umbrella Movement, coupled with the unyielding response of the PRC and Leung’s administration, contributed to further polarization and radicalization of Hong Kong society, which continued tourism is likely to escalate.

This situation has been noticed by Hong Kong and Beijing lawmakers, including Michael

Tien, a Hong Kong representative at the meeting of the National People’s Congress and a leader

(with Regina Ip) of the pro-Beijing New People’s Party. “It started out as a so-called congestion problem, crowd problem, tourism problem. It has now escalated to become a political problem, because those who object to the scheme are chanting slogans of wanting independence. That is a very different matter; it has now alerted the highest echelons,” said Tien at a meeting of the

National People’s Congress in Beijing in March 2015 (Sim 2015). Several weeks later, China’s

Ministry of Public Security announced that residents in Shenzhen, neighboring Hong Kong, would be restricted to one visit to Hong Kong per week, as a measure to curb social and political tensions caused by parallel trading (Li and Lin 2015).

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7.5 Comparative Analysis: “Today’s Hong Kong is Today’s Taiwan”?

“Today’s Hong Kong is Tomorrow’s Taiwan” was a phrase that proliferated throughout the Sunflower Movement as a warning to Taiwan civil society that a “One Country, Two

Systems” or “One China” policy would not be in its interest (Tsoi 2014). The comparisons further circulated throughout the Umbrella Movement, yet their temporality has been at play as well, with “Today’s Hong Kong is Today’s Taiwan” becoming a popular rejoinder. This phrase is meant not to suggest that Taiwan and Hong Kong have similar sovereign status or political economic structure, but that they are facing a common threat from the PRC. An alternate take on this geographical quasi-equation has also been anticipated by a pro-Moral and National

Education academic in Hong Kong, Sonny Lo, who has defined “Taiwanization” in the following way: “The ‘Taiwanization’ of Hong Kong means that the territory’s chief executive would be not only directed by universal suffrage but also outside the control of Beijing” (Lo

2008, 13). This idiosyncratic usage, which frames an entire book about the feasibility of using

Hong Kong’s system as a model for Taiwan, essentially equates “Taiwanization” with

“democratization” and implies its undesirability for Beijing.

Sunflower activists demonstrated in solidarity with their Hong Kong counterparts. At the beginning of the Umbrella Movement, after student demonstrators were met with police tear gas on September 28, Taiwanese activists, including Sunflower icon Chen Wei-ting, stormed the

Hong Kong trade office in Taipei, decrying police brutality and demanding a halt to all talks with

China, and they and 1989 Tiananmen protest veterans staged sudden demonstrations in Liberty

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Square. Said Lau Ka-yee, a women’s rights activist from Hong Kong, speaking to the crowd,

“Taiwanese often say that today’s Hong Kong will be tomorrow’s Taiwan. However, I think:

‘Today’s Hong Kong is today’s Taiwan’ is closer to the truth. People need to gain a sense of urgency” (Lii 2014). Many Taiwanese flew in to demonstrate in solidarity, and Hong Kong activists expressed their support for Taiwan’s social movements. “If this doesn’t work, maybe we’ll try to immigrate to Taiwan,” was a half-serious refrain I heard directly from many

Umbrella activists after I arrived in Hong Kong on September 30.

Personal links certainly exist between Taiwan and Hong Kong activists, including informal visits, meetings and study trips of student and civil society groups, but there is little evidence of coordinated action between them. That having been said, the Sunflower Movement, and Taiwan’s democracy in general, served as something of a beacon to Hong Kong activists, causing concern amongst critics of the movements. For example, pro-government Hong Kong legislator Regina Ip reflected on the “inspirational relationship” between the Sunflowers and the

Umbrellas in a South China Morning Post editorial about how best to “counter pernicious external influences” (Ip 2014). Such “pernicious influences” included not only the Taiwanese activists and academics who visited the occupation sites in Hong Kong, but also the very

(American and Taiwanese) idea of public nomination, which are “much harder to eradicate.” Ip’s article reflected Beijing’s general drive to paint the protests as the product of “foreign forces” and thereby disclaim responsibility for listening to the demands of its Hong Kong’s student activists. Ip had a personal stake in this issue, having championed the failed passage of the “anti- subversion” Article 23 more than ten years ago, ultimately triggering a protest movement against that bill and MNE, which had consolidated activists and served as predecessors to the Umbrella

Movement.

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Sunflowers had been criticized by some Taiwanese intellectuals as “protectionist and

“anti-globalization,” while some Umbrellas have been criticized as unduly localist or nativist. While the above assertions are debatable, it does point to the movements’ spokespeople’s decision to limit their focus and demands to local issues, instead of emphasizing solidarity with other post-industrial polities facing similar structural economic problems.

Although activists were continually debating wider issues of global political economy, tactical compromises were made to direct communications efforts towards achieving goals that could be realized within local administrative domains—including procedural justice and democratic reforms—further strengthening a focus on place-based concerns and specifically local forms of identity politics. Like Taiwan, while Hong Kong’s movement was fueled not just by cultural anti-Mainland sentiment but also economic woes, its activists made a similar choice to maintain a local focus. The headline-grabbing anti-tourist performances of some of its successors, including Hong Kong Indigenous, have accelerated this localist trend.

Sunflower leader Lin Fei-fan’s reflection on the Umbrella Movement, published in

Foreign Policy as “Today’s Hong Kong, Today’s Taiwan,” encapsulates these concerns:

The main goal of the "one country, two systems" policy by which China governs Hong Kong is to provide a template for Taiwan, but the developments of recent years clearly show China placing increasingly tight restrictions on Hong Kong’s self-governance. It’s not just that China has reneged on its promise that Hong Kong’s system would remain "unchanged for 50 years." A more serious problem is that conflicts within Hong Kong society have proliferated. The wealth disparity there cannot be solved via existing structures, and the huge influx of mainland tourists, as well as mainlanders who become , have also created even more social problems. Taiwan faces similar concerns. We have seen that Taiwan and the Chinese government have signed a number of trade agreements exposing Taiwan to industrial outsourcing, falling salaries, increases in the disparity between rich and poor, national security risks, and other crises (F. Lin 2014).

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In this passage, Lin nods towards Hong Kong’s tourism problems, but makes no mention of tourism in Taiwan elsewhere in the article. Indeed, apart from a raft of critical reports on social and popular media, and the anti-CSSTA campaign which affected tourism industry development, there is still little significant sign of specifically anti-Chinese tourist organizing within Taiwan. There may be a temporal factor here—perhaps it’s just a matter of time before

Taiwan is sufficiently saturated with tourists to provoke an organized backlash. There are spatial factors, such as Taiwan’s much greater land area relative to Hong Kong, meaning that tourists are more spread out and cause less every day disruption for Taiwan residents. A further factor is institutional and geopolitical: It is easy to speculate that without the social release valve of the

Sunflower Movement, the institutional capacity for reform and redirection at the ballot box in late 2014 and early 2016, not to mention Taiwan’s de facto political independence, that more radical Taiwanese activists would have followed their Hong Kong counterparts and targeted

Chinese tourists as proxies for PRC and KMT political interests. In this respect, today’s Taiwan is not quite today’s Hong Kong, at least not yet.

7.6 Conclusion

The Sunflower Movement came on the heels of eight years of an extraordinarily unpopular Ma administration that championed tourism from China, emphasized the “Chinese” in the Republic of China and the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT), and attempted to recover an anachronistic territorial imaginary of the ROC as sovereign over all of China. The success of the

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Sunflower Movement, the failed passage of the CSSTA and other cross-strait trade bills, and the election of Tsai and a DPP and NPP-majority legislature signified a wide-scale political and economic recalibration away from the PRC. It also signaled a general clarification and limitation of Taiwan’s territorial program to its current de facto administered space.

Ambiguities and ironies in Taiwan’s state territorial program still exist: Taiwan’s legal system still claims sovereignty over yet distinguishes between the “Taiwan Area” and the

“Mainland Area” of the Republic of China; the KMT is still the “Chinese Nationalist Party,” despite running (and losing) a presidential election campaign while using “One Taiwan” as its slogan; Tsai promised throughout her campaign to maintain the ambiguous “status quo” while her party maintained a pro-independence plank in its charter; the ROC and PRC’s overlapping claims in the South and Sea are not only unsettled with each other, but also with other contending powers.

The PRC has not changed its position on its sovereignty over Taiwan—if anything, they’ve extended their emphasis on the “One China” concept. But the Sunflower Movement marked a watershed. At the time of writing, calls were again circulating among Taiwanese educators and legislators to amend the national anthem and remove Sun Yat-Sen from his KMT- installed position as “Father of the Nation” (guofu, 國父) (Tseng 2016). Such moves were certainly seen under the administration of Chen Shui-bian, but the DPP’s new legislative majority gives it more teeth to implement such changes and even consider constitutional reform or a more comprehensive “transitional justice” program to redress the violence from decades of authoritarian one-party rule.

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Tourism is not the only factor of this electoral, geopolitical, and cultural transformation.

These other factors have included sluggish economic growth and Ma’s unrealized election-time promises of 6% GDP growth, which were to come in part from tourism. Adding further fuel to the fire was widespread perception of incompetence, corruption, and scandal within the Ma cabinet and the KMT more generally. But it was the backlash to the CSSTA, which included major tourism provisions, that consolidated, channeled, magnified, and sustained this transformation. The Hong Kong Umbrella Movement, which I have argued was primed by long- simmering resentment towards Chinese tourists and parallel traders, quite likely also pushed

Taiwan’s voters further away from the KMT and its pro-China integration platform.

Via the Sunflower Movement, tourism has therefore played a direct and indirect role in the reorientation of Taiwan’s territorial imaginary and with it, its political and economic relationship with the PRC. However, Tsai’s public statements, which promised to “maintain the status quo” and expressed mild support for Chinese tourism, suggest that the PRC has already realized some degree of success in using the economic and political incentives of tourism to constrain Tsai’s maneuvering room within her own polity and abroad. Following her election, the swirling rumors that the PRC planned to limit outbound tourism as a retaliatory measure underscored the continuing political potency of tourism for both sides. The story is not over.

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Chapter 8

Tourism as a territorial strategy in and beyond Taiwan: The case of the South China Sea

In the opening chapters of the dissertation, I argued that tourism can project state authority over mobility, identity, and territory. It both reproduces and disrupts the state and interstate system. Performances of tourism—at tourist sites, performed on the streets and inscribed in passports—articulate state power through space, and form an ontological cradle of the tourist and the toured as national subjects. As tourists travel through and between territorial spaces of states, they, along with the agents of the state, enact state territory and borders. And in so doing, they may become instruments of a state’s foreign policy apparatus. Whether as a political, economic, or social subject, their behavior both fixes and destabilizes borders, both deterritorializes and reterritorializes the state. Such a theorization suggests that researchers should attend to the political complexities of tourism without assuming a normative trajectory of peace or reconciliation.

In this sense, and especially in the context of Taiwan’s own blurred sovereignty, the everyday, prosaic practices of tourism has both reproduced and destabilized the Taiwanese state as an “imaginary collective actor” (Painter 2006). Tourism, as a political technology, has effectively reproduced the national imaginary of Chinese group tourists, and has produced other kinds of imaginaries for some independent tourists. As for Taiwanese-identified hosts, the

253 popular backlash and electoral transformations indirectly catalyzed by inbound tourism from

China and its regulatory and treaty regimes also points to tourism’s instrumentality as a political technology—in this case, KMT-implemented tourism and related cross-strait policies have actually precipitated popular support for the DPP and independence.

The empirical section of the dissertation provided ethnographies and analysis of tourist spaces throughout Taiwan, a focused account of an eight-day group tour, and narration of independent tourist tales and encounters. These chapters point to the heterotopian qualities of

Taiwan—its ability to invert, juxtapose, or call into question certain assumptions not only about

China, but about the modern world order of mutually exclusive, territorially bounded nation- states. They also specify ways that the tourist industry and state actors have collaborated in the performance of Taiwan as a part of China, but have also enabled openings for unscripted spaces and moments that create the conditions of possibility for other narratives to emerge. The empirical section ended with an extended discussion of the major effects a tourism-related trade deal had on Taiwan’s domestic politics and its relations with China, and a comparison with the case of Hong Kong.

The remaining pages serve as conclusion and coda to the case of Taiwan, and also as an exploratory extension of this theoretical argument to the case of the South China Sea. After summarizing the general argument of the dissertation, I briefly demonstrate the applicability of the conceptual and methodological framework beyond Taiwan to highlight another nearby region where tourism may soon precipitate not only civil unrest, but outright international military conflict.

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8.1 Tourism as a territorial “problem”: A never-ending story?

The PRC’s leadership has long used particular forms of migration as a strategy of state building, territorial unification and annexation, and political influence overseas (Nyíri 2010; Sun

2002). For so-called autonomous regions within its administrative bounds, labor migration has been part of a basket of “gifts” of developmental infrastructure to Xinjiang and Tibet (Yeh

2013). For Taiwan and Hong Kong, tourism has been presented as an economic “gift” meant to solicit economic and political cooperation. In all of these “peripheries,” the scale and scope of migration and tourism has generated concern and protest.

In Taiwan, where leisure tourism from China arrived in 2008, the pro-unification KMT has treated impacts of visitors as symbolic of beneficial relations. But a backlash against the

KMT-championed Cross-Strait Service Trade Agreement, which included major tourism provisions, erupted in the 2014 Sunflower Movement, a mass protest that blocked the Legislative

Yuan. Subsequently, the KMT suffered its worst electoral defeat in history, throwing the future of PRC-Taiwan relations back into question.

In Hong Kong, tourism has also been used as a strategy of territorial unification and cultural “integration”. The Closer Economic Partnership Agreement between Hong Kong and mainland China established the Individual Visitor Scheme in 2003, which eventually raised annual visitor arrivals to over 40 million in a territory of 7 million residents. The extent of tourism fueled the 2014 Umbrella Movement in Hong Kong.

This dissertation has examined how tourism is imbricated in contradictions between its instrumentality as both centralizing force for territorial consolidation, as well as a driver of

255 political movements and performative failures that would subvert it. Chapters One and Two proposed that tourism mobilities constitute national subjects and nation-states, and reproduce and undermine borders and territories. Using a Foucauldian theoretical framework, I argued that tourism, as a political technology, is part and parcel of state geopolitical programs. These effects articulate not just via state-scale visa and passport regimes, but through the messy outcomes of everyday embodied behavior. Far from being a reliable tool of peacemaking, rapprochement, or even territorial claim-making, tourism can also aggravate alienation and precipitate protest.

Chapter Three chronicled the history of tourism as a tool of PRC foreign policy, a tactic of territorial projects, and pivot of Taiwan and China relations. In Taiwan and Hong Kong,

Chinese tourists have become issues in electoral and protest politics. Their administration and management has also been fraught with regulatory irregularities, including the outsourcing of travel permit processing to industry actors with questionable ties to PRC industry and the KMT.

These practices and relationships have produced contradictions between the territorial and cultural programs of the different state administrations in all three territories. These contradictions emerge through changing mobility regimes and conflicting sovereign programs, as well as through representations of tourists and tourist spaces that proliferate beyond the bounds of state control.

Chapter Four presented Taiwan and its tourist sites as heterotopia that juxtapose

(un)familiar cultural, political, spatial, and linguistic elements in ways that call Chinese and

Taiwanese identity and territory into question. Such heterotopia can be noted everywhere from the regularized spaces and routines of the airport, to the “nascent nation-state theater” of demonstrators and counter-demonstrators at the Taipei 101 skyscraper.

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Chapter Five provided a detailed chronicle of an eight-day group tour from Shanghai to

Taiwan. It argues that the performance of the tour guide, the spatio-temporal structuring of the itinerary, and the intra-group interaction effectively performed Taiwan as a part of China, facilitating an experience of Taiwan as not only a cultural, but a territorially Chinese tourist destination.

Chapter Six turned from the tightly bound and curated territorial circuits of the group tour to the more heterogeneous spaces of individual tourism. It argued that the same heterotopian qualities of Taiwan’s tourist spaces that are outlined in Chapter Four enable a multiplicity of possible interpretation and experience. Depending on the tourist’s territorial socialization prior to and during their trip, this can confirm, disrupt, or otherwise alter their ideological stance towards

Taiwan, but in ways that are highly variable, uncertain and unpredictable.

Chapter Seven shifted focus from the micro-politics of tourism encounters to the more macro-politics of state practice and mass protest in Taiwan and nearby Hong Kong. It provides an in-depth, first-hand account of the 2014 Sunflower Movement, “the greatest episode of collective contention in Taiwan’s history” (Ho 2015; Rowen 2015), which began as a response to a trade deal with China that included major tourism provisions. I compare this episode with the

Hong Kong Umbrella Movement, which I argue was stoked by tensions surrounding Chinese tourism to the territory.

The post-Sunflower electoral defeat and disarray of the KMT, and the election of a cautiously independence-leaning president and legislature marks a new period in Taiwan’s history. In the meantime, the PRC under Xi Jinping has consolidated one-party rule and intensified territorial claims not only for Taiwan, but the South China Sea. Tourism has again emerged as a major tactic in this strategic game.

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8.2 Tourism as “creative territorialization” in the South China Sea

The PRC is using tourism to reconfigure geopolitical imaginaries and popular political discourse, and develop new leisure spaces, economies, and infrastructure not only in Taiwan, but in the South China Sea. This also tacitly supports the PRC’s strategy for Taiwan by asserting continuity and overlap with, and ultimately priority over, the territorial claims of the ROC, which was in fact the first Chinese state entity to issue the so-called “nine-dash line” claiming most of the South China Sea in 1947 (Fravel 2011).

This section argues that the PRC is using tourism as a tactic in the South China Sea to assert not only military and administrative control, but cultural hegemony as well, both for its own citizens as well as against its competing claimants. The claims of official state agencies, both about sovereign territory and its administrative division, are reproduced and circulated travel industry actors, tourists, and bloggers, promoting further tourism development and materialization of the PRC’s claims. As ethnographic participation on these tours was not possible for this preliminary study, my data will focus on state claims, industry marketing materials, and tourist travel guides.

Of all the competing state claimants to the South China Sea, the PRC’s use of tourism as a tool of foreign policy and territorial strategy is most well-established. Moreover, the PRC’s military and island-construction projects are more extensive than its neighbors. That having been noted, Vietnam and the Philippines, the PRC’s most assertive counter-claimants, have also

258 become increasingly pro-active about organizing politically-motivated tours in recent years, and will also receive brief discussion.

The section will first situate and provide a brief political ’s outbound tourism policies and practices in the South China Sea. As in Chapter 3, it will pay particular attention to the territorial claims implicit in new Chinese passport designs and the establishment of the “ City” administrative region throughout the South China Sea. This will be followed with a brief qualitative analysis of state official announcements and destination marketing materials from both private and state-owned Chinese travel agencies. This analysis explores the territorial implications of representations of South China Sea destinations as not only new sites for leisure, but for the performance and training of a patriotic Chinese citizenry.

The PRC’s claims of spatio-temporal territorial continuity have dilated inexorably over time. On June 2015, PRC Foreign Minister stated, "One thousand years ago China was a large sea-faring nation. So of course China was the first country to discover, use and administer the Nansha [Spratly] Islands…China's demands of sovereignty over the Nansha Islands have not expanded and neither will they shrink. Otherwise we would not be able to face our forefathers and ancestors" (Blanchard 2015).

The uneven and unsettled administration of the South China Sea has provided a theater for several “creative territorialization” strategies, including administrative rezoning (Cartier

2013) and tourism. Both administrative rezoning and tourism function as a territorial technologies tangibly in the region by making facts on the ground (or the sea, as it were): Ships and planes bearing people and materials inscribe visible changes on the landscape, physically labeled as a particular zone. Zoning and tourism also functions intangibly in intra- and international space by making discursive claims about regional heritage and history.

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Not only bodies and battleships, but mere paper and maps have produced heated disputes in the South China Sea. The passport, one of the main devices of tourists and the state and quasi- state apparatus that regulates their mobility, has been deployed in the South China Sea dispute. A map with the nine dash line was included in China’s microchip-equipped passports starting in

2012, drawing immediate criticism from officials in the Philippines and Vietnam. “The

Philippines strongly protests the inclusion of the nine-dash lines in the e-passport as such image covers an area that is clearly part of the Philippines’ territory and maritime domain,” Philippine

Foreign Secretary Albert del Rosario said. “This action by China has violated Vietnam's sovereignty to the Paracel and Spratly islands as well as our sovereign rights and jurisdiction to related maritime areas in the South China Sea, or the East Sea,” said Luong Thanh Nghi, a spokesman for Vietnam's foreign ministry (Mogato 2012).

Tourism in the South China Sea has been facilitated by new administrative designations and territorial divisions, characteristic of the PRC’s “creative territorialization” regime (Cartier

2013). The July 2012 establishment of the Sansha prefectural-level “city,” encompassing only 13 square kilometers of land but including 2 million total square kilometers of the surrounding waters of the Spratlys and Paracels, is an example of the relationship between “administrative- territorial change or adjustment… territorial change and the economy, and the role of the state in projecting future social, political, and economic goals through territorial adjustment” (Cartier

2013, 72–73). The goals of the establishment of Sansha City include consolidation of the PRC’s sovereign claims to the territory. The performative declaration of Sansha’s creation by the

(administratively super-ordinate) Hainan provincial governor and provincial party secretary

“narrates the territorializing discourse” of this new administrative arrangement (Cartier 2013,

72).

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Tourism is key to this territorializing process. In May 2015, the Work

Department of the Communist Party of China Central Committee—the state body tasked with facilitating Communist Party collaboration overseas and advancing the PRC’s territorial expansion and integration projects (including Taiwan and Hong Kong), issued a revealing series of suggestions to “improve Sansha tourism safety”:

With the establishment of Sansha City in recent years, Sansha tourism has become official business. Sansha tourism has extremely important significance. To pledge and protect our nation’s sovereignty over the South China Sea, promoting the development of Hainan and South China Sea tourism will have an important function. The year 2013 was our nation’s year of ocean tourism. The opening of Sansha tourism was the official maiden voyage of deep sea tourism. Our nation is a tourism great power, and extending our destinations into the ocean will symbolize our move towards being a tourism superpower. As Sansha tourism is ocean tourism, there are a number of key tourism safety issues. Tourism safety is the fundamental guarantor of tourism development. Primarily because the Xisha Islands occupy a special position in the South China Sea issue, even though our nation has sovereignty over the Xisha Islands, their geographical position and special environmental factors raise issues for tourism management (United Front Work Department of the CPC Central Committee 2015, my translation).

While the remainder of the United Front report focuses primarily on navigation safety, weather, medical facilities, and tourist safety education, it suggests that “incursions” by Vietnam and the Philippines into the PRC’s claimed territorial waters may also influence Paracel tourist safety.

The United Front Work Department’s own communications make plain that tourism is a conscious part of the PRC’s territorialization program for the South China Sea. This official program articulates with the collaboration of a mix of state and non-state actors. Tourism adds rich and additional narrative modes and acts to such territorializing discourses, enrolling not just

261 nominal state entities or actors in claim-making, but ordinary bodies, businesses, and even blogs in the production of borders and territory.

The abstract administration of sovereignty in the imaginary space of a potential tourist destination became increasingly concrete with the opening of the Paracels to tourism on April 6,

2013, one year after the administrative creation of Sansha. Although the maiden voyage of the

Coconut Princess raised objections from Vietnam, Chinese officials and tourists appeared unfazed. For example, on a BBC news video report on tourists as “foot soldiers” in the China-

Vietnam sovereignty dispute, a middle-aged Chinese male tourist claimed, “This is our national territory. I can come and go here whenever I please.” The journalist concluded, “on the islands, tourism has become more about politics than mere pleasure” (Ethirajan 2014). Travel agencies are clear about the political implications of their operations, and use them as selling points.

"Setting foot onto China's most beautiful gardens is a declaration of our national sovereignty," says the website of the Hainan Airways International Travel Agency (Torode and Mogato 2015).

Tourist industry representations of the disputed island groups further perpetuate the territorializing instrumentality of the newly-formed Sansha City administrative zone. For example, Ctrip, China’s largest travel booking engine, lists island destinations such as Yongxing

Island (the seat of Sansha’s government; also known as Woody Island), Qilian Island, and others under the Sansha category. This follows Ctrip’s general site hierarchy of province-city- destination, normalizing the administrative-territorial claims implicit in the creation of Sansha

City.

Under its general information about Sansha City, Ctrip includes the following description:

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Sansha City is one of the three prefectural-level cities in Hainan. Located in the South China Sea, it is the southernmost city in China, and the second city in the country to be composed of an archipelago. The land area of Sansha City is 13 square kilometers, and the sea area is over 2 million square kilometers. In its jurisdiction are Xisha, Zhongsha, and Nansha island groups as well as their waters. It is China’s smallest city by land area, largest city by total area, and least populated city. Sansha City’s government seat is on Yongxing Island in Xisha. Yongxing Island is also the largest island in the South China Sea.9

The exact same description is found on the websites of state-owned operators such as

Beijing China Travel Service, while others with subtle variations but substantially similar content can be found on social travel sites like Mafengwo. Such descriptions of urban spaces would be banal in less exceptional “cities” are but their appearance here furthers the aims and strategies here of the initial establishment of Sansha City, which serves, in Cartier’s terms, to

“safeguard China’s sovereignty and serve marine resource development, [which] are future- oriented and backed by state power. This is… the administration of sovereignty and the economy of marine resources in the abstract space of a city” (2013, 72). It is also the administration and economy of leisure, and specifically tourism, in this abstract space.

Sovereignty and territorial location as selling points

On the Hainan International Travel Airways website, the four-day round-trip voyage from , Hainan, to the Paracels in Sansha on the Coconut Princess, which takes approximately 200 passengers on two trips per month, is described as 2015’s trendiest voyage:

Sail on the legendary Coconut Princess, circle the beautiful Paracel (Xisha) islands This is the southernmost and most difficult journey, but it will change your life.

9 http://you.ctrip.com/summary/sansha120101.html (Accessed 20 August 2015)). My translation.

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There are no starred amenity services or facilities, just the extreme purity of the sky, sea, islands, and beaches. Open China’s map—in the deep blue of the South China Sea, behind the red coral and blue waters hides the Paracels. Here is a heaven, half of water, half of fish. In 2005, the Paracels were named “1st, Place, Most Beautiful Islands” by China National Geographic Magazine. If you think Sanya is stunning, then a look at the Paracels sea will make you swoon. Even if it’s just a glance, even just a glance, you’ll be certain that this is the final paradise. Everyone’s heart has a sea like this. What a pity that most people will never arrive in their lifetime.10

Despite the above claims, the terms and conditions also include the following:

The Paracels are military zone, not a tourism area. The Paracels are one of China’s unopened areas. It is necessary to observe the nation’s laws and regulations as well as the rules of the islands, and to take care of the natural environment. Violators will be held responsible.

Another advertisement for the Coconut Princess is even bolder in its appeals to patriotic sentiment. Next to a PRC flag is this call to action:

The southern islands have been part of China’s territory since ancient times. They are a sacred territory that cannot be divided. Please join us, step on the sacred, miraculous (shenqi, 神奇), mysterious national territory (guotu, 国土) with your two feet, and witness and participate in history!11

A promotion for a different ship, the Sansha No. 1, departing from City,

Hainan, states:

China’s most mysterious sea region, its southernmost archipelago, an important military zone, the Paracels highest island is Shidao, its biggest island is Yongxing Island... The Paracels are a place you should visit once in your life. Some tourists

10 http://www.cncn.com/xianlu/553593855843 (Accessed 20 August, 2015). My translation.

11 http://www.cncn.com/xianlu/424301062668 (Accessed 20 August, 2015). My translation.

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think that Sanya’s Tianya Haijiao is the southernmost point in our homeland, but actually that’s false. Others say that Zengmu’ansha, also in Sanya, is the southernmost. Looking at the map, Jinmujiao is a bit farther south even. But let’s not split hairs—none of these even come close to comparing to the already- developed Paracels.12

The marketing copy of both of these sales pitches and regional descriptions focuses not just on the natural beauty of these destinations, but also on their geographical uniqueness as the southernmost extent of the claimed homeland. Strikingly lost in the hyperbole of the website is the PRC’s claim to the Spratly Islands, which are significantly farther south of the Paracels. If anything, this should be read as an indication of the creatively ambiguous nature of the PRC’s claims to the region, as well as the fact that the Spratlys have not yet been opened to PRC tourism. Once tourists are able to head farther south than the Paracels, China’s so-called

“southernmost archipelago” designation will move farther southward online as well.

A political reading of popular tourism guides

The novelty of the South China Sea as a destination limits the availability of blogs and other first-person accounts of South China Sea leisure tourism. Nonetheless, the online search giant ’s Travel and Experience sections feature several posts that have been viewed by thousands of unique visitors. This section briefly discusses two of the most popular of these accounts.

A thorough “how-to guide” for Yongxing Island (Shi 2012), published by a Baidu user who has also written a guide to tourism in the disputed Senkaku/Diaoyu Islands (claimed by

12 http://www.cncn.com/xianlu/787943014690 (Accessed 20 August, 2015). My translation.

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Japan, the ROC, and the PRC), helps frame the political narratives of the South China Sea tour.

Amidst substantial verbiage devoted to the island’s profusion of palm trees, expansive beaches and broad blue ocean vistas, and the historical relics of the South China Sea, the island’s value to nation-building narratives is still given prominence of place. Striking here is an assertion of affinity between the PRC and the ROC, which first officially issued the nine-dash line territorial claim in a 1947 map (Fravel 2011):

Here you can watch the raging seas lapping against the shores and see the majestic sights of waves piled upon waves. At sunset, you can also enter the “General’s Forest (将军林),” filled with love and romance, and feel the affection and nostalgia the Republic [of China] leaders had for the Paracels.13

The photo blog of Baidu user Black Night Prince “黑夜王子” details his four-day trip in

February 2015, showing photos of the PRC flag on every island, as well as photos of him in front of posted signs announcing not only national sovereignty, but the exact administrative designations of the islands under Sansha City, for example, “China, Hainan Province, Sansha

City, Yagong Island”. 14 In the responses to both of these posts and others, commenters allude to the Paracels as “China’s ,” assert that the Paracels contain China’s finest beaches and boundless marine resources, and consistently use terms like “Our Nation” and “homeland” to characterize Chinese sovereignty over the region. Not surprisingly, tourism bloggers are facilitating the PRC’s creative territorialization strategies.

Vietnam and the Philippines join the fray

13 http://jingyan.baidu.com/article/bea41d435f3099b4c51be632.html (Accessed 20 August, 2015). My translation. 14 http://lvyou.baidu.com/pictravel/88a93abe237d6a7d27110164 (Accessed 20 August, 2015). My translation.

266

In June 2015, Vietnam entered the fray in a belated answer to the Coconut Princess,

China’s cruise ship in the Paracels, announcing a 6-day cruise ship tour to two islands and two reefs of the Spratlys. The cruise ship promotion was announced on the Ho Chi Minh City website, using language in a similar patriotic register as its Chinese competitor, "Travelling to

Truong Sa [Spratlys]... means the big trip of your life, reviving national pride and citizens' awareness of the sacred maritime sovereignty of the country... Tourists will no longer feel

Truong Sa as far away, the blue Truong Sa ocean will be deep in people's hearts" (Reuters 2015).

The cruise ship was the first salvo in a planned step-by-step rollout of Spratly tourism, including passenger flights and package tours.

The Philippines has also expressed interest in building a cruise line to their military- controlled islands in the Spratlys, including Patag, Lawak and Pagasa, as well as the Ayungin

Shoal (Second Thomas Shoal). General Catapang, the chief of staff of the Armed Forces of the

Philippines, “claimed that the cruise service could be a win-win situation for China and the

Philippines because Beijing already has cruise services in other areas of the South China Sea”

(Keck 2014). However, according to the same article, a naval official from the Chinese People’s

Liberation Army saw such a potential cruise line as a violation of its sovereignty claims. All of this indicates the likelihood of a new kind of tourist adventure in the not-too-distant future: the cruise ship confrontation.

Conclusion

Tourism is an increasingly key part of the PRC’s efforts to claim and occupy the South

China Sea. The importance of tourism as a territorial strategy is underscored by the involvement of the United Front Work Department of the Communist Party of China, which is tasked with

267 promoting CPC programs overseas and consolidating the PRC’s territorial claims beyond mainland China, including Hong Kong and Taiwan.

Claims to the South China Sea are made discursively by images on passports, and by spoken and written official pronouncements. The synergistic effect of PRC rezoning and state- directed, politically-instrumental leisure tourism supports the PRC’s claims to and administrative-hierarchical division of the South China Sea. These claims are reproduced by travel agencies and tour operators, and propagated by tourist bloggers.

At the time of writing, Chinese cruise ships were departing several times a month from

Hainan to the Paracels, carrying several hundred passengers who are exposed to marketing materials that sell this islands as aesthetically inspiring and politically vital destinations. Vietnam has announced a similar tourism campaign for the Spratlys, and the Philippines has also expressed interest. Not just a paper “passport war,” but a real-life “tourism war” with territorial consequences, may be on the South China Sea horizon.

8.3 Tourism and territory beyond Taiwan and China

While the South China Sea case points to the general applicability of the dissertation’s conceptual and methodological framework to another nearby region, there remain several important differences between it and Taiwan: 1) While Taiwan is a de facto sovereign state administered and represented as the ROC (despite the PRC’s counter-claims), the South China

Sea remains essentially unpopulated apart from military personnel. It is claimed by several of

268 state actors, the sovereignty of all of whom, unlike Taiwan, is uniformly recognized by international organizations within their terrestrial if not maritime borders. This makes tourism more part of a quasi-military occupational strategy in the South China Sea than in Taiwan, where tourism articulates as a subtler territorial tactic. 2) Taiwan’s de facto sovereignty and border controls require tourists to cross borders from one nominal territory to another, producing a different, discrete kind of territorial effect for tourists than the smooth maritime traverse into the terra incognita and tabula rasa of the South China Sea. 3) While still fraught and contested, tourism is relatively normalized between the PRC and Taiwan, allowing for regular human encounter and reflection on identity and difference between sending and receiving territories and populations. This implies that while tourism may also be a technology of Chinese state territorialization for the South China Sea, it has very different stakes and effects than those of

Taiwan.

I would like to end the dissertation with a restatement of its main argument and conclusions. I have demonstrated, based on interviews and participant-observation, that cross-

Strait tourism is producing multiple, overlapping, and contradictory sensations of stateness and state territory within Taiwan. These effects are produced in part by the highly regimented structure of group tourism as managed by cross-Strait industry actors, which produces a tourist experience very similar to that of the PRC.

I have also argued that tourism is producing a contradiction between PRC tourists’ admiration and identification with their Taiwanese hosts, and Taiwanese hosts’ alienation from their guests. PRC tourists praise Taiwanese for their manners and kindness, attributing such charms to an idealized Chinese essence projected onto the people of Taiwan. Meanwhile,

Taiwanese people avoid PRC tourists and decreasingly identify themselves as Chinese (National

269

Chengchi University Election Study Center 2015). The PRC’s strategy of using economic incentives, including tourism, to project political power over Taiwan has provoked mass protest in Taiwan and nearby Hong Kong. Even if many if not most PRC tourists continue to believe that Taiwan is a part of China, outbound tourism to Taiwan should therefore be seen as a double- edged sword for the PRC’s territorialization program.

The practices of individual mobile subjects, or of aggregated tourist flows, are only partially determined by state policy and programs. State projects themselves may be impacted by the unexpected outcomes of tourist practice. This is due to tourism’s imbrication with wider issues of national identity, territory, and geopolitical order. Future mobilities and borders research, whether in this region or beyond, would be well-served by closer attention to such unpredictable political instrumentalities and chaotic effects of tourist practice.

The ambiguity of Taiwan’s sovereign status may indeed be exceptional in the modern inter-state system, but this merely serves to highlight the exceptionality of the modern inter-state system itself. Global space did not used to be configured in this way—there is nothing inevitable about its current division into discrete, exclusive units. Attention to the shifting contours of

“Greater China”, the “Chinese axis”, or even just Taiwan itself, reveal the political, economic, social, and cultural processes that underlie state territorialization. More broadly, a treatment of tourism as a technology of state territorialization reveals sites and practices worthy of research not only in this region, but beyond.

This dissertation was designed specifically for the case of China and Taiwan, but its conceptual framework has broader applicability not only for bringing tourism into its rightful place as a field of political geographical research, but also for exploring the reconfiguration of other unsettled areas, such as the South China Sea, as well as other regions that harbor tensions

270 between sub-national, national and supra-national political formations. One less proximate contemporary possibility would be an examination of the role of tourism in mediating European national identity and borders in the context of the changing political and economic configuration of the European Union. As new regional blocs continue to form and reform elsewhere, such as those in ASEAN countries, and as the spaces of the nation continue to be challenged by the spaces of flows, this research agenda may yet travel farther.

271

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